THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


THE   WORKS   OF 
WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 


CORNHILL    EDITION 
•VOLUME    XII 


Gros'  Atelier  in  the  Court- ijard  of  the  Institute  of  France 


From  a  print 


THE 


PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK 


OF 


MR.  M.  A.  TITMARSH 


BY 
WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 


WITH   THE  AUTHOR'S  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1911 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


NOTE 


The  Paris  Sketch  Book  was  published  in  1840,  in  two 
volumes,  by  John  Macrone — the  publisher,  four  years 
before,  of  Dickens's  Sketches  by  Boz.  It  was  Thack- 
eray's first  real  publication  of  a  book;  for  "Flore  et 
Zephyr:  ballet  mythologique  par  Theophile  WagstafF," 
which  sometimes  so  figures  in  the  bibliographies,  though 
issued  in  book  form  in  1836  (by  Mitchell,  Bond  Street), 
was  nothing  more  than  a  set  of  drawings  reproduced  by 
lithography  and  without  letterpress;  while  a  book  issue 
of  the  Yellowplush  Papers  in  America  in  1838  (they  had 
appeared  in  Fraser  the  year  before)  cannot  count  as 
put  forth  by  the  author. 

Made  up  of  papers,  sketches,  and  stories,  many  of 
which  had  already  appeared  and  the  rest  of  which  had 
been  written  at  widely  different  times,  the  Paris  Sketch 
Book  has  of  course  no  individual  history  or  associations 
like  the  novels.  It  was  probably  put  together  and  pre- 
pared for  publication  in  London,  in  the  house  No.  13 
Great  Coram  Street,  where  Thackeray  lived  for  about 
three  years  before  it  appeared,  and  where  two  of  his  chil- 
dren were  born.    His  own  name  nowhere  appeared  upon 

V 


the  book,  only  his  signature,  already  used  in  Fraser 
and  elsewhere,  of  "  M.  A.  Titmarsh." 

That  residence  in  Paris,  of  which  he  speaks  in  the 
"  advertisement  "  to  the  first  edition  as  the  origin  of  most 
of  the  sketches,  had  been  at  intervals  during  the  thirties, 
and  had  been  entered  upon  by  him  as  an  art  student  soon 
after  his  law  studies  at  Taprell's  in  the  Temple,  and  con- 
tinued later  as  correspondent  of  the  London  newspaper, 
the  Constitutional  J,  of  which  his  stepfather  was  a  part 
owner.  Some  of  his  work  on  an  earlier  journal,  the 
National  Standard,  his  investment  in  which  has  been 
held  partly  responsible  for  the  money  losses  which  set 
him  to  earning  his  living  by  pen  and  pencil,  was  also 
done  in  Paris;  but  his  main  interest  at  that  earlier 
time  seems  to  have  been  in  his  art  studies.  At  all  events, 
he  wrote  to  his  mother  in  December,  1833:  "  I  spend  all 
day  now,  dear  mother,  at  the  Atelier,  and  am  very  well 
satisfied  with  the  progress  I  make ;  "  and  his  writing 
was  not  a  serious  business  until  a  year  or  two  later. 

Altogether  Paris  was  as  much  his  home  as  London 
until  his  marriage  there  in  August,  1836;  and  even  for 
a  while  afterward — until  about  the  time  the  Constitu- 
tional suspended  publication  in  1837— he  continued  to 
make  it  his  headquarters,  living  in  the  rue  Neuve  St. 
Augustin.  In  that  year  the  first  period  of  his  resi- 
dence may  be  said  to  have  ended;  but  after  the  begin- 
ning of  his  wife's  illness  in  1840,  the  year  of  the  Sketch 
Book,  he  returned  to  Paris,  at  first  with  his  children,  and 
spent  much  of  his  time  there  for  several  years  more. 


VI 


Mr.  Eyre  Crowe,  afterward  Thackeray's  secretary, 
and  in  these  early  days  also  an  art  student  in  Paris,  says 
that  it  is  not  possible  to  identify  certainly  the  atelier  in 
which  Thackeray  worked  as  described  in  his  letter  to  his 
mother;  but  that  "  the  tradition  is  "  that  it  was  Gros',  in 
the  court  of  the  Institute.  A  drawing  of  this,  from 
the  print  furnished  to  Scribner's  Magazine  by  Mr. 
Crowe  in  1897,  is  made  the  frontispiece  to  this  edition. 


vH 


DEDICATORY    LETTER    TO 

M.    ARETZ,    TAILOR,    ETC. 

27.  rue  richelieu,  paris. 
Sir, 

It  becomes  every  man  in  his  station  to  acknowledge  and 
praise  virtue  wheresoever  he  may  find  it,  and  to  point  it  out  for 
the  admiration  and  example  of  his  fellow-men. 

Some  months  since,  when  you  presented  to  the  writer  of  these 
pages  a  small  account  for  coats  and  pantaloons  manufactured 
by  you,  and  when  you  were  met  by  a  statement  from  your  credi- 
tor, that  an  immediate  settlement  of  your  bill  would  be  extremely 
inconvenient  to  him ;  your  reply  was,  "  Mon  Dieu,  Sir,  let  not 
that  annoy  you ;  if  you  want  money,  as  a  gentleman  often  does 
in  a  strange  country,  I  have  a  thousand-franc  note  at  my  house 
which  is  quite  at  your  service." 

History  or  experience.  Sir,  makes  us  acquainted  with  so  few 
actions  that  can  be  compared  to  yours, — an  offer  like  this  from 
a  stranger  and  a  tailor  seems  to  me  so  astonishing, — that  you 
must  pardon  me  for  thus  making  your  virtue  public,  and  ac- 
quainting the  English  nation  with  your  merit  and  your  name. 
Let  me  add,  Sir,  that  you  live  on  the  first  floor ;  that  your  clothes 
and  fit  are  excellent,  and  your  charges  moderate  and  just;  and, 
as  a  humble  tribute  of  my  admiration,  permit  me  to  lay  these 
volumes  at  your  feet. 

Your  obliged,  faithful  servant, 

M.    A.    TiTMARSH. 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  FIRST 

EDITION 

About  half  of  the  sketches  in  these  volumes  have  al- 
ready appeared  in  print,  in  various  periodical  works. 
A  part  of  the  text  of  one  tale,  and  the  plots  of  two  others, 
have  been  borrowed  from  French  originals;  the  other 
stories,  which  are,  in  the  main,  true,  have  been  written 
upon  facts  and  characters  that  came  within  the  Author's 
observation  during  a  residence  in  Paris. 

As  the  remaining  papers  relate  to  public  events  which 
occurred  during  the  same  period,  or  to  Parisian  Art  and 
Literature,  he  has  ventured  to  give  his  publication  the 
title  which  it  bears. 

London,  July  1,  1840. 


CONTENTS 

PACiB 

An  Invasion  of  France 1 

A  Caution  to  Travellers 18 

The  Fetes  of  July 41 

On  the  French  School  of  Painting 53 

The   Painter's   Bargain 79 

Cartouche 98 

On  some  French  Fashionable  Novels 114 

A  Gambler's  Death 143 

Napoleon  and  his  System 157 

The  Story  of  Mary  Ancel 176 

Beatrice  Merger 202 

Caricatures  and  Lithography  in  Paris 212 

Little   Poinsinet 249 

The  Devil's  Wager 268 

Madame  Sand  and  the  new  Apocalypse 282 

The  Case  of  Peytel 316 

Four  Imitations  of  Beranger 355 

French  Dramas  and  Melodramas 367 

Meditations  at  Versailles 394 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

Gbos'  Atelier  in  the  Court-yard  of  the  In- 
stitute OF  France Frontispiece 

From  a  print 


FACING  PAGE 

Paris  Sketches 1 

Mr.  Pogson's  Temptation 22 

A  Puzzle  for  the  Devil 96 

Cartouche 112 

How  TO  Astonish  the  French 116 

Mary  Ancel 178 

The  Cheap  Defence  of  Nations 214 

Poinsinet  in  Disguise 256 

The  Chaplain  Puzzled 276 

French  Catholicism 284 

The  Gallery  at  Deburau's  Theatre  Sketched  from 
Nature 384 

I/JDovicus,  AN  Historical  Study 404 


EXPLANATION  OF  THE  ALLEGORY 


Number  I's  an  ancient  Carliet,  Number  3  a  Paris  Artist, 
Gloomily  there  stands  between  them,  Number  2  a  Bonapartist; 
In  the  middle  la  King  Louis-Philip  standing  at  his  ease, 
Guarded  by  a  loyal  Grocer,  and  a  Serjeant  of  Police; 
4'3  the  people  in  a  passion,  6  a  Priest  ol' pious  mien, 
5  A  Gentlem.an  ol' Fashion,  copied  from  a  Magazine. 


THE 

PARIS  SKETCH   BOOK 

AN  INVASION  OF  FRANCE 

"Caesar  venit  in  Galliam  sumraa  diligentia." 

ABOUT  twelve  o'clock,  just  as  the  bell  of  the  packet 
L  is  tolling  a  farewell  to  London  Bridge,  and  warn- 
ing off  the  blackguard-boys  with  the  newspapers,  who 
have  been  shoving  Times,  Herald,  Penny  Paul-Pry, 
Penny  Satirist,  Flare-uj),  and  other  abominations,  into 
your  face — just  as  the  bell  has  tolled,  and  the  Jews, 
strangers,  people -taking -leave -of -their -families,  and 
blackguard  boys  aforesaid,  are  making  a  rush  for  the 
narrow  plank  which  conducts  from  the  paddle-box  of  the 
"  Emerald  "  steamboat  unto  the  quay — you  perceive, 
staggering  down  Thames  Street,  those  two  hackney- 
coaches,  for  the  arrival  of  which  you  have  been  praying, 
trembling,  hoping,  despairing,  swearing — sw — ,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  I  believe  the  word  is  not  used  in  polite 
company — and  transpiring,  for  the  last  half -hour.  Yes, 
at  last,  the  two  coaches  draw  near,  and  from  thence  an 
awful  number  of  trunks,  children,  carpet-bags,  nursery- 
maids, hat  -  boxes,  band  -  boxes,  bonnet  -  boxes,  desks, 
cloaks,  and  an  affectionate  wife,  are  discharged  on  the 
quay. 

"  Elizabeth,  take  care  of  Miss  Jane,"  screams  that 
worthy  woman,  who  has  been  for  a  fortnight  employed 


2  THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 

in  getting  this  tremendous  body  of  troops  and  baggage 
into  marching  order.  "  Hicks!  Hicks!  for  heaven's  sake 
mind  the  babies!  " — "  George — Edward,  sir,  if  you  go 
near  that  porter  with  the  trunk,  he  will  tumble  down  and 
kill  you,  you  naughty  boy! — My  love,  do  take  the  cloaks 
and  umbrellas,  and  give  a  hand  to  Fanny  and  Lucy ;  and 
I  wish  you  would  speak  to  the  hackney-coachmen,  dear, 
they  want  fifteen  shillings,  and  count  the  packages,  love 
— twenty-seven  packages, — and  bring  little  Flo;  where's 
little  Flo?— Flo!  Flo!"— (Flo  comes  sneaking  in;  she 
has  been  speaking  a  few  parting  words  to  a  one-eyed  ter- 
rier, that  sneaks  off  similarly,  landward.) 

As  when  the  hawk  menaces  the  hen-roost,  in  like  man- 
ner, when  such  a  danger  as  a  voyage  menaces  a  mother, 
she  becomes  suddenly  endowed  with  a  ferocious  presence 
of  mind,  and  bristling  up  and  screaming  in  the  front 
of  her  brood,  and  in  the  face  of  circumstances,  succeeds, 
by  her  courage,  in  putting  her  enemy  to  flight;  in  like 
manner  you  will  always,  I  think,  find  your  wife  (if  that 
lady  be  good  for  twopence)  shrill,  eager,  and  ill-hu- 
moured, before  and  during  a  great  family  move  of  this 
nature.  Well,  the  swindling  hackney-coachmen  are  paid, 
the  mother  leading  on  her  regiment  of  little  ones,  and 
supported  by  her  auxiliary  nursemaids,  are  safe  in  the 
cabin; — you  have  counted  twenty-six  of  the  twenty- 
seven  parcels,  and  have  them  on  board,  and  that  horrid 
man  on  the  paddle-box,  who,  for  twenty  minutes  past, 
has  been  roaring  out,  NOW,  SIR!— says,  now,  sir,  no 
more. 

I  never  yet  knew  how  a  steamer  began  to  move,  be- 
ing always  too  busy  among  the  trunks  and  children,  for 
the  first  half-hour,  to  mark  any  of  the  movements  of  the 
vessel.    When  these  private  arrangements  are  made,  you 


AN   INVASION   OF   FRANCE  3 

find  yourself  opposite  Greenwich  (farewell,  sweet,  sweet 
whitebait!),  and  quiet  begins  to  enter  your  soul.  Your 
wife  smiles  for  the  first  time  these  ten  days ;  you  pass  by 
plantations  of  ship-masts,  and  forests  of  steam-chim- 
neys; the  sailors  are  singing  on  board  the  ships,  the 
bargees  salute  you  with  oaths,  grins,  and  phrases  face- 
tious and  familiar;  the  man  on  the  paddle-box  roars, 
"  Ease  her,  stop  her!  "  which  mysterious  words  a  shrill 
voice  from  below  repeats,  and  pipes  out,  "  Ease  her, 
stop  her!  "  in  echo;  the  deck  is  crowded  with  groups  of 
figures,  and  the  sun  shines  over  all. 

The  sun  shines  over  all,  and  the  steward  comes  up  to 
say,  "  Lunch,  ladies  and  gentlemen!  Will  any  lady  or 
gentleman  please  to  take  anythink?  "  About  a  dozen 
do:  boiled  beef  and  pickles,  and  great  red  raw  Cheshire 
cheese,  tempt  the  epicure:  little  dumpy  bottles  of  stout 
are  produced,  and  fizz  and  bang  about  with  a  spirit  one 
would  never  have  looked  for  in  individuals  of  their  size 
and  stature. 

The  decks  have  a  strange  look;  the  people  on  them, 
that  is.  Wives,  elderly  stout  husbands,  nursemaids,  and 
children  predominate,  of  course,  in  English  steamboats. 
Such  may  be  considered  as  the  distinctive  marks  or  the 
English  gentleman  at  three  or  four  and  forty:  two  or 
three  of  such  groups  have  pitched  their  camps  on  the 
deck.  Then  there  are  a  number  of  young  men,  of  whom 
three  or  four  have  allowed  their  moustaches  to  begin  to 
grow  since  last  Friday ;  for  they  are  going  "  on  the 
Continent,"  and  they  look,  therefore,  as  if  their  upper 
lips  were  smeared  with  snuff. 

A  danseuse  from  the  opera  is  on  her  way  to  Paris. 
Followed  by  her  bonne  and  her  little  dog,  she  paces  the 
deck,  stepping  out,  in  the  real  dancer  fashion,  and  ogHng 


4  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

all  around.  How  happy  the  two  young  Englishmen  are, 
who  can  speak  French,  and  make  up  to  her :  and  how  all 
criticise  her  points  and  paces!  Yonder  is  a  group  of 
young  ladies,  who  are  going  to  Paris  to  learn  how  to  be 
governesses :  those  two  splendidly  dressed  ladies  are  mil- 
liners from  the  Rue  Richelieu,  who  have  just  brought 
over,  and  disposed  of,  their  cargo  of  Summer  fashions. 
Here  sits  the  Rev.  Mr.  Snodgrass  with  his  pupils,  whom 
he  is  conducting  to  his  establishment,  near  Boulogne, 
where,  in  addition  to  a  classical  and  mathematical  educa- 
tion (washing  included),  the  young  gentlemen  have  the 
benefit  of  learning  French  among  tlie  French  tlie7ii- 
selves.  Accordingly,  the  young  gentlemen  are  locked  up 
in  a  great  rickety  house,  two  miles  from  Boulogne,  and 
never  see  a  soul,  except  the  French  usher  and  the  cook. 

Some  few  French  people  are  there  already,  prepar- 
ing to  be  ill— (I  never  shall  forget  a  dreadful  sight 
I  once  had  in  the  little  dark,  dirty,  six-foot  cabin  of  a 
Dover  steamer.  Four  gaunt  Frenchmen,  but  for  their 
pantaloons,  in  the  costume  of  Adam  in  Paradise,  sol- 
emnly anointing  themselves  with  some  charm  against 
sea-sickness!) — a  few  Frenchmen  are  there,  but  these, 
for  the  most  part,  and  with  a  proper  philosophy,  go  to 
the  fore-cabin  of  the  ship,  and  you  see  them  on  the 
fore-deck  (is  that  the  name  for  that  part  of  the  vessel 
which  is  in  the  region  of  the  bowsprit?)  lowering  in  huge 
cloaks  and  caps;  snuiFy,  wretched,  pale,  and  wet;  and 
not  jabbering  now,  as  their  wont  is  on  shore.  I  never 
could  fancy  the  Mounseers  formidable  at  sea. 

There  are,  of  course,  many  Jews  on  board.  Who  ever 
travelled  by  steamboat,  coach,  diligence,  eilwagen,  vet- 
turino,  mule-back,  or  sledge,  without  meeting  some  of 
the  wandering  race? 


AN   INVASION   OF   FRANCE  5 

By  the  time  these  remarks  have  been  made  the  steward 
is  on  the  deck  again,  and  dinner  is  ready :  and  about  two 
hours  after  dinner  comes  tea ;  and  then  there  is  brandy- 
and-water,  which  he  eagerly  presses  as  a  preventive 
against  what  may  happen ;  and  about  this  time  you  pass 
the  Foreland,  the  wind  blowing  pretty  fresh;  and  the 
groups  on  deck  disappear,  and  your  wife,  givmg  you  an 
alarmed  look,  descends,  with  her  little  ones,  to  the  ladies' 
cabin,  and  you  see  the  steward  and  his  boys  issuing  from 
their  den  under  the  paddle-box,  with  each  a  heap  of 
round  tin  vases,  like  those  which  are  called,  I  believe, 
in  America,  eocpectoratoons,  only  these  are  larger. 

*^  ^  ^  4t 

■I*  *i*  M*  *l^ 

The  wind  blows,  the  water  looks  greener  and  more 
beautiful  than  ever — ridge  by  ridge  of  long  white  rock 
passes  away.  "  That's  Ramsgit,"  says  the  man  at  the 
helm;  and,  presently,  "  That  there's  Deal — it's  dreadful 
fallen  off  since  the  war;"  and  "  That's  Dover,  round 
that  there  pint,  only  you  can't  see  it."  And,  in  the  mean- 
time, the  sun  has  plumped  his  hot  face  into  the  water,  and 
the  moon  has  shown  hers  as  soon  as  ever  his  back  is 
turned,  and  Mrs. —  (the  wife  in  general,)  has  brought  up 
her  children  and  self  from  the  horrid  cabin,  in  which  she 
says  it  is  impossible  to  breathe;  and  the  poor  little 
wretches  are,  by  the  officious  stewardess  and  smart  stew- 
ard (expectoratoonifer),  accommodated  with  a  heap  of 
blankets,  pillows,  and  mattresses,  in  the  midst  of  which 
they  crawl,  as  best  they  may,  and  from  the  heaving  heap 
of  which  are,  during  the  I'est  of  the  voyage,  heard  occa- 
sional faint  cries,  and  sounds  of  puking  woe! 

Dear,  dear  Maria!  Is  this  the  woman  who,  anon, 
braved  the  jeers  and  brutal  wrath  of  swindling  hackney- 
coachmen;  who  repelled  the  insolence  of  haggling  por- 


6  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

ters,  with  a  scorn  that  brought  down  their  demands  at 
least  eighteenpence  ?  Is  this  the  woman  at  whose  voice 
servants  tremble;  at  the  sound  of  whose  steps  the  nur- 
sery, ay,  and  mayhap  the  parlour,  is  in  order?  Look  at 
her  now,  prostrate,  prostrate — no  strength  has  she  to 
speak,  scarce  power  to  push  to  her  youngest  one— her 
suffering,  struggling  Rosa,— to  push  to  her  the— the 
instrumentoon ! 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  throes  and  agonies,  at  which 
all  the  passengers,  who  have  their  own  woes  (you  your- 
self—for how  can  you  help  them?— yon  are  on  your 
back  on  a  bench,  and  if  you  move  all  is  up  with  you), 
are  looking  on  indilFerent- one  man  there  is  who  has 
been  watching  you  with  the  utmost  care,  and  bestowing 
on  your  lielpless  family  the  tenderness  that  a  father 
denies  them.  He  is  a  foreigner,  and  you  have  been  con- 
versing with  him,  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  in  French 
—which,  he  says,  you  speak  remarkably  well,  like  a 
native  in  fact,  and  then  in  English  (which,  after  all, 
you  find  is  more  convenient).  What  can  express  your 
gratitude  to  this  gentleman  for  all  his  goodness  towards 
your  family  and  yourself — you  talk  to  him,  he  has  served 
under  the  Emperor,  and  is,  for  all  that,  sensible,  modest, 
and  well-informed.  He  speaks,  indeed,  of  his  country- 
men almost  with  contempt,  and  readily  admits  the  su- 
periority of  a  Briton,  on  the  seas  and  elsewhere.  One 
loves  to  meet  with  such  genuine  liberality  in  a  foreigner, 
and  respects  the  man  who  can  sacrifice  vanity  to  truth. 
This  distinguished  foreigner  has  travelled  much;  he 
asks  whither  you  are  going?— where  you  stop?  if  you 
have  a  great  quantity  of  luggage  on  board?— and  laughs 
when  he  hears  of  the  twenty-seven  packages,  and  hopes 
you  have  some  friend  at  the  custom-house,  who  can  spare 


AN   INVASION   OF   FRANCE  7 

you  the  monstrous  trouble  of  unpacking  that  which  has 
taken  you  weeks  to  put  up.  Nine,  ten,  eleven,  the  dis- 
tinguished foreigner  is  ever  at  your  side;  you  find  him 
now,  perhaps,  (with  characteristic  ingratitude,)  some- 
thing of  a  bore,  but,  at  least,  he  has  been  most  tender  to 
the  children  and  their  mamma.  At  last  a  Boulogne  light 
comes  in  sight,  (you  see  it  over  the  bows  of  the  vessel, 
when,  having  bobbed  violently  upwards,  it  sinks  swiftly 
down,)  Boulogne  harbour  is  in  sight,  and  the  foreigner 
says,— 

The  distinguished  foreigner  says,  says  he—"  Sare,  eef 
you  af  no  'otel,  I  sail  recommend  you,  milor,  to  ze  'Otel 
Betfort,  in  ze  Quay,  sare,  close  to  the  bathing-machines 
and  custom-ha-oose.  Good  bets  and  fine  garten,  sare; 
table-d'hote,  sare,  a  cinq  heures;  breakfast,  sare,  in 
French  or  English  style; — I  am  the  commissionnaire, 
sare,  and  vill  see  to  your  loggish." 

*  *  *  Curse  the  fellow,  for  an  impudent,  swin- 
dling, sneaking  French  humbug! — Your  tone  instantly 
changes,  and  you  tell  him  to  go  about  his  business :  but  at 
twelve  o'clock  at  night,  when  the  voyage  is  over,  and  the 
custom-house  business  done,  knowing  not  whither  to  go, 
with  a  wife  and  fourteen  exhausted  children,  scarce  able 
to  stand,  and  longing  for  bed,  you  find  yourself,  some- 
how, in  the  Hotel  Bedford  (and  you  can't  be  better), 
and  smiling  chambermaids  carry  off  your  children  to 
snug  beds ;  while  smart  waiters  produce  for  your  honour 
— a  cold  fowl,  say,  and  a  salad,  and  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux 
and  Seltzer-water. 

*  *  ^  ^ 

The  morning  comes — I  don't  know  a  pleasanter  feel- 
ing than  that  of  waking  with  the  sun  shining  on  objects 
quite  new,  and  (although  you  have  made  the  voyage  a 


8  THE    PARIS    SKETCH  BOOK 

dozen  times,)  quite  strange.  Mrs.  X.  and  you  occupy 
a  very  light  bed,  which  has  a  tall  canopy  of  red  "  yer- 
cale;  "  the  windows  are  smartly  draped  with  cheap  gaudy 
calicoes  and  muslins;  there  are  little  mean  strips  of  car- 
pet about  the  tiled  floor  of  the  room,  and  yet  all  seems 
as  gay  and  as  comfortable  as  may  be — the  sun  shines 
brighter  than  you  have  seen  it  for  a  year,  the  sky  is  a 
thousand  times  bluer,  and  what  a  cheery  clatter  of  shrill 
quick  French  voices  comes  up  from  the  court-yard  under 
the  windows!  Bells  are  jangling;  a  family,  mayhap, 
is  going  to  Paris  en  yoste,  and  wondrous  is  the  jabber 
of  the  courier,  the  postilion,  the  inn-waiters,  and  the 
lookers-on.  The  landlord  calls  out  for  "  Quatre  biftecks 
aux  pommes  pour  le  trente-trois," —  (O  my  countrymen, 
I  love  your  tastes  and  your  ways!)— the  chambermaid 
is  laughing  and  says,  "  Finissez  done.  Monsieur  Pierre!  " 
(what  can  they  be  about?)— a  fat  Englishman  has 
opened  his  window  violently,  and  says,  "  Dee  dong,  gar- 
song,  vooly  voo  me  donny  lo  sho,  ou  vooly  voc  pah?  "  He 
has  been  ringing  for  half  an  hour — the  last  energetic 
appeal  succeeds,  and  shortly  he  is  enabled  to  descend 
to  the  coffee-room,  where,  with  three  hot  rolls,  grilled 
ham,  cold  fowl,  and  four  boiled  eggs,  he  makes  what  he 
calls  his  first  French  breakfast. 

It  is  a  strange,  mongrel,  merry  place,  this  town  of 
Boulogne;  the  little  French  fishermen's  children  are 
beautiful,  and  the  little  French  soldiers,  four  feet  high, 
red-breeched,  with  huge  pompons  on  their  caps,  and 
brown  faces,  and  clear  sharp  eyes,  look  for  all  their  little- 
ness, far  more  military  and  more  intelligent  than  the 
heavy  louts  one  has  seen  swaggering  about  the  garrison 
towns  in  England.  Yonder  go  a  crowd  of  bare-legged 
fishermen ;  there  is  the  town  idiot,  mocking  a  woman  who 


AN   INVASION   OF   FRANCE  9 

is  screaming  "  Fleuve  du  Tage,"  at  an  inn-window,  to 
a  harp,  and  there  are  the  Httle  gamins  mocking  him. 
Lo!  these  seven  young  ladies,  with  red  hair  and  green 
veils,  they  are  from  neighbouring  Albion,  and  going  to 
bathe.  Here  come  three  Englishmen,  habitues  evidently 
of  the  place,— dandy  specimens  of  our  countrymen:  one 
wears  a  marine  dress,  another  has  a  shooting  dress,  a 
third  has  a  blouse  and  a  pair  of  guiltless  spurs — all  have 
as  much  hair  on  the  face  as  nature  or  art  can  supply,  and 
all  wear  their  hats  very  much  on  one  side.  Believe  me, 
there  is  on  the  face  of  this  world  no  scamp  like  an 
English  one,  no  blackguard  like  one  of  these  half- 
gentlemen,  so  mean,  so  low,  so  vulgar, — so  ludicrously 
ignorant  and  conceited,  so  desperately  heartless  and 
depraved. 

But  why,  my  dear  sir,  get  into  a  passion? — Take 
things  coolly.  As  the  poet  has  observed,  "  Those  only 
is  gentlemen  who  behave  as  sich;  "  with  such,  then,  con- 
sort, be  they  cobblers  or  dukes.  Don't  give  us,  cries 
the  patriotic  reader,  any  abuse  of  our  fellow-country- 
men (anybody  else  can  do  that),  but  rather  continue 
in  that  good-humoured,  facetious,  descriptive  style,  with 
which  your  letter  has  commenced. — Your  remark,  sir, 
is  perfectly  just,  and  does  honour  to  your  head  and  ex- 
cellent heart. 

There  is  little  need  to  give  a  description  of  the  good 
town  of  Boulogne;  which,  haute  and  basse,  with  the 
new  light-house  and  the  new  harbour,  and  the  gas-lamps, 
and  the  manufactures,  and  the  convents,  and  the  number 
of  English  and  French  residents,  and  the  pillar  erected 
in  honour  of  the  grand  Armee  d'Angleterre,  so  called 
because  it  didnt  go  to  England,  have  all  been  excellently 
described  by  the  facetious  Coglan,  the  learned  Dr.  ]Mil- 


10  THE   PARIS    SKETCH  BOOK 

lingen,  and  by  innumerable  guide-books  besides.  A  fine 
thing  it  is  to  hear  tlie  stout  old  Frenchmen  of  Napoleon's 
time  argue  how  that  audacious  Corsican  would  have 
marched  to  London,  after  swallowing  Nelson  and  all  his 
gun-boats,  but  for  cette  malheureuse  guerre  d'Espagne 
and  cette  glorieuse  campagne  d'Autriche,  which  the  gold 
of  Pitt  caused  to  be  raised  at  the  Emperor's  tail,  in  order 
to  call  him  off  from  the  helpless  country  in  his  front. 
Some  Frenchmen  go  farther  still,  and  vow  that  in  Spain 
they  were  never  beaten  at  all ;  indeed,  if  you  read  in  the 
BiograpJiie  des  Hommes  du  Jour,  article  "  Soult,"  you 
will  fancy  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  disaster  at  Vit- 
toria,  the  campaigns  in  Spain  and  Portugal  were  a  series 
of  triumphs.  Only,  by  looking  at  a  map,  it  is  observable 
that  Vimeiro  is  a  mortal  long  way  from  Toulouse,  where, 
at  the  end  of  certain  years  of  victories,  we  somehow  find 
the  honest  Marshal.  And  what  then?— he  went  to  Tou- 
louse for  the  purpose  of  beating  the  English  there,  to  be 
sure; — a  known  fact,  on  which  comment  would  be  super- 
fluous. However,  we  shall  never  get  to  Paris  at  this  rate ; 
let  us  break  off  further  palaver,  and  away  at  once.  *  * 
(During  this  pause,  the  ingenious  reader  is  kindly  re- 
quested to  pay  his  bill  at  the  Hotel  at  Boulogne,  to  mount 
the  Diligence  of  Laffitte,  Caillard  and  Company,  and  to 
travel  for  twenty-five  hours,  amidst  much  jingling  of 
harness-bells  and  screaming  of  postilions.) 

**if,  ^  ^f,  *^ 

vjv  >jv  y^  'I* 

The  French  milliner,  who  occupies  one  of  the  corners, 
begins  to  remove  the  greasy  pieces  of  paper  which  have 
enveloped  her  locks  during  the  journey.  She  withdraws 
the  *'  Madras  "  of  dubious  hue  which  has  bound  her  head 
for  the  last  five-and-twenty  hours,  and  replaces  it  by  the 
black  velvet  bonnet,  which,  bobbing  against  your  nose, 


AN   INVASION   OF   FRANCE  11 

has  hung  from  the  Dihgence  roof  since  your  departure 
from  Boulogne.  The  old  lady  in  the  opposite  corner, 
who  has  been  sucking  bonbons,  and  smells  dreadfully  of 
anisette,  arranges  her  little  parcels  in  that  immense  bas- 
ket of  abominations  which  all  old  women  carry  in  their 
laps.  She  rubs  her  mouth  and  eyes  with  her  dusty  cam- 
bric handkerchief,  she  ties  up  her  nightcap  into  a  little 
bundle,  and  replaces  it  by  a  more  becoming  head-piece, 
covered  with  withered  artificial  flowers,  and  cinampled 
tags  of  ribbon ;  she  looks  wistfully  at  the  company  for  an 
instant,  and  then  places  her  handkerchief  before  her 
mouth: — her  eyes  roll  strangely  about  for  an  instant, 
and  you  hear  a  faint  clattering  noise:  the  old  lady  has 
been  getting  ready  her  teeth,  w^hich  had  lain  in  her  basket 
among  the  bonbons,  pins,  oranges,  pomatum,  bits  of 
cake,  lozenges,  prayer-books,  peppermint-water,  copper 
money,  and  false  hair — stowed  away  there  during  the 
voyage.  The  Jewish  gentleman,  who  has  been  so  atten- 
tive to  the  milliner  during  the  journey,  and  is  a  traveller 
and  bagman  by  profession,  gathers  together  his  various 
goods.  The  sallow-faced  English  lad,  who  has  been 
drunk  ever  since  we  left  Boulogne  yesterday,  and  is  com- 
ing to  Paris  to  pursue  the  study  of  medicine,  swears  that 
he  rejoices  to  leave  the  cursed  Diligence,  is  sick  of  the 
infernal  journey,  and  d — d  glad  that  the  d — d  voyage  is 
so  nearly  over.  "  Enfin!"  says  your  neighbour,  yawn- 
ing, and  inserting  an  elbow  into  the  mouth  of  his  right 
and  left  hand  companion, ''  nous  voila." 

Nous  Voila!— We  are  at  Paris!  This  must  account 
for  the  removal  of  the  milliner's  curl-papers,  and  the 
fixing  of  the  old  lady's  teeth. — Since  the  last  relais,  the 
Diligence  has  been  travelling  with  extraordinary  speed. 
The  postilion  cracks  his   terrible  whip,   and   screams 


12  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

shrilly.  The  conductor  blows  incessantly  on  his  horn,  the 
bells  of  the  harness,  the  bumping  and  ringing  of  the 
wheels  and  chains,  and  the  clatter  of  the  great  hoofs  of 
the  heavy  snorting  Norman  stallions,  have  wondrously 
increased  within  this,  the  last  ten  minutes ;  and  the  Dili- 
gence, which  has  been  proceeding  hitherto  at  the  rate  of  a 
league  in  an  hour,  now  dashes  gallantly  forward,  as  if 
it  would  traverse  at  least  six  miles  in  the  same  space  of 
time.  Thus  it  is,  when  Sir  Robert  maketh  a  speech  at 
Saint  Stephen's — he  useth  his  strength  at  the  beginning, 
only,  and  the  end.  He  gallopeth  at  the  commencement; 
in  the  middle  he  lingers;  at  the  close,  again,  he  rouses 
the  House,  which  has  fallen  asleep;  he  cracketh  the 
whip  of  his  satire ;  he  shouts  the  shout  of  his  patriotism ; 
and,  urging  his  eloquence  to  its  roughest  canter,  awakens 
the  sleepers,  and  inspires  the  weary,  until  men  say.  What 
a  wondrous  orator !  What  a  capital  coach !  We  will  ride 
henceforth  in  it,  and  in  no  other! 

But,  behold  us  at  Paris!  The  Diligence  has  reached  a 
rude-looking  gate,  or  grille,  flanked  by  two  lodges;  the 
French  Kings  of  old  made  their  entry  by  this  gate ;  some 
of  the  hottest  battles  of  the  late  revolution  were  fought 
before  it.  At  present,  it  is  blocked  by  carts  and  peasants, 
and  a  busy  crowd  of  men,  in  green,  examining  the  pack- 
ages before  they  enter,  probing  the  straw  with  long 
needles.  It  is  the  Barrier  of  St.  Denis,  and  the  green 
men  are  the  customs'-men  of  the  city  of  Paris.  If  vou 
are  a  countryman,  who  would  introduce  a  cow  into  the 
metropolis,  the  city  demands  twenty-four  francs  for  such 
a  privilege:  if  you  have  a  hundredweight  of  tallow- 
candles,  you  must,  previously,  disburse  three  francs:  if  a 
drove  of  hogs,  nine  francs  per  whole  hog :  but  upon  these 
subjects  ]Mr.  Bulwer,  Mrs.  Trollope,  and  other  writers. 


AN   INVASION    OF   FRANCE  13 

have  already  enlightened  the  public.  In  the  present  in- 
stance, after  a  momentary  pause,  one  of  the  men  in  green 
mounts  by  the  side  of  the  conductor,  and  the  ponderous 
vehicle  pursues  its  journey. 

The  street  which  we  enter,  that  of  the  Faubourg  St. 
Denis,  presents  a  strange  contrast  to  the  dark  uniformity 
of  a  London  street,  where  everything,  in  the  dingy  and 
smoky  atmosphere,  looks  as  though  it  were  painted  in 
India-ink— black  houses,  black  passengers,  and  black 
sky.  Here,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  thousand  times  more  life 
and  colour.  Before  you,  shining  in  the  sun,  is  a  long 
glistening  line  of  gutter, — not  a  very  pleasing  object  in 
a  city,  but  in  a  picture  invaluable.  On  each  side  are 
houses  of  all  dimensions  and  hues;  some  but  of  one 
storey;  some  as  high  as  the  tower  of  Babel.  From  these 
the  haberdashers  ( and  this  is  their  favourite  street )  flaunt 
long  strips  of  gaudy  calicoes,  which  give  a  strange  air 
of  rude  gaiety  to  the  street.  Milk-women,  with  a  little 
crowd  of  gossips  round  each,  are,  at  this  early  hour  of 
morning,  selling  the  chief  material  of  the  Parisian  cafe- 
au-lait.  Gay  wine  shops,  painted  red,  and  smartly  dec- 
orated with  vines  and  gilded  railings,  are  filled  with 
workmen  taking  their  morning's  draught.  That  gloomy- 
looking  prison  on  your  right  is  a  prison  for  women; 
once  it  was  a  convent  for  Lazarists:  a  thousand  unfor- 
tunate individuals  of  the  softer  sex  now  occupy  that 
mansion:  they  bake,  as  we  find  in  the  guide-books,  the 
bread  of  all  the  other  prisons;  they  mend  and  wash  the 
shirts  and  stockings  of  all  the  other  prisoners ;  they  make 
hooks-and-eyes  and  phosphorus-boxes,  and  they  attend 
chapel  every  Sunday: — if  occupation  can  help  them,  sure 
they  have  enough  of  it.  Was  it  not  a  great  stroke  of  the 
legislature  to  superintend  the  morals  and  linen  at  once, 


14  THE    PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  thus  keep  these  poor  creatures  continually  mend- 
ing?—But  we  have  passed  the  prison  long  ago,  and  are 
at  the  Porte  St.  Denis  itself. 

There  is  only  time  to  take  a  hasty  glance  as  we  pass : 
it  commemorates  some  of  the  wonderful  feats  of  arms  of 
Ludovicus  ^lagnus,  and  abounds  in  ponderous  allegories 
—  nymphs,  and  river-gods,  and  pyramids  crowned  with 
fleurs-de-lis;  Louis  passing  over  the  Rhine  in  triumph, 
and  the  Dutch  Lion  giving  up  the  ghost,  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  1672.  The  Dutch  Lion  revived,  and  over- 
came the  man  some  years  afterwards;  but  of  this  fact, 
singularly  enough,  the  inscriptions  make  no  mention. 
Passing,  then,  round  the  gate,  and  not  under  it  (after 
the  general  custom,  in  respect  of  triumphal  arches) ,  you 
cross  the  boulevard,  which  gives  a  glimpse  of  trees  and 
sunshine,  and  gleaming  white  buildings;  then,  dashing 
down  the  Rue  de  Bourbon  Villeneuve,  a  dirty  street, 
which  seems  interminable,  and  the  Rue  St.  Eustache, 
the  conductor  gives  a  last  blast  on  his  horn,  and  the  great 
vehicle  clatters  into  the  court-yard,  where  its  journey 
is  destined  to  conclude. 

If  there  was  a  noise  before  of  screaming  postilions  and 
cracked  horns,  it  was  nothing  to  the  Babel-like  clatter 
which  greets  us  now.  We  are  in  a  great  court,  which 
Haj  ji  Baba  would  call  the  father  of  Diligences.  Half-a- 
dozen  other  coaches  arrive  at  the  same  minute — no  light 
affairs,  like  your  English  vehicles,  but  ponderous  ma- 
chines, containing  fifteen  passengers  inside,  more  in  the 
cabriolet,  and  vast  towers  of  luggage  on  the  roof:  others 
are  loading:  the  yard  is  filled  with  passengers  coming  or 
departing; — bustling  porters  and  screaming  commis- 
sionnaires.  These  latter  seize  you  as  you  descend  from 
your  place,— twenty  cards  are  thrust  into  your  hand,  and 


AN   INVASION   OF   FRANCE 


15 


as  many  voices,  jabbering  with  inconceivable  swiftness, 
shriek  into  your  ear,  "  Dis  way,  sare;  are  you  for  ze 
"Otel  of  Rhin?'  'Hotel  de  V  Amir  ante !'-' Hotel 
Bristol,'  sare  I— Monsieur, '  VHoiel  de  Lille?  '  Sacr-rrre 
'nom  de  Dieu,  laissez  passer  ce  petit.  Monsieur!  Ow 
mosh  loggish  ave  you,  sare?  " 


And  now,  if  you  are  a  stranger  in  Paris,  listen  to  the 
words  of  Titmarsh. — If  you  cannot  speak  a  syllable  of 
French,  and  love  English  comfort,  clean  rooms,  break- 
fasts, and  waiters;  if  you  would  have  plentiful  dinners, 
and  are  not  particular  (as  how  should  you  be?)  concern- 
ing wine ;  if,  in  this  foreign  country,  you  will  have  your 
English  companions,  your  porter,  your  friend,  and  your 
brandy-and-water — do  not  listen  to  any  of  these  com- 
missioner fellows,  but  with  your  best  English  accent, 
shout  out  boldly,  "  Meurice!  "  and  straightway  a  man 
will  step  forward  to  conduct  you  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

Here  you  will  find  apartments  at  any  price :  a  very  neat 
room,  for  instance,  for  three  francs  daily;  an  English 
breakfast  of  eternal  boiled  eggs,  or  grilled  ham ;  a  nonde- 


16  THE   PARIS  SKETCH   BOOK 

script  dinner,  profuse  but  cold ;  and  a  society  which  will 
rejoice  your  heart.  Here  are  young  gentlemen  from  the 
universities;  young  merchants  on  a  lark;  large  families 
of  nine  daughters,  with  fat  father  and  mother;  officers 
of  dragoons,  and  lawyers'  clerks.  The  last  time  we 
dined  at  "  Meurice's  "  we  hobbed  and  nobbed  with  no 
less  a  person  than  Mr.  Moses,  the  celebrated  bailiif  of 
Chancery  Lane;  Lord  Brougham  was  on  his  right,  and 
a  clergyman's  lady,  with  a  train  of  white-haired  girls, 
sat  on  his  left,  wonderfully  taken  with  the  diamond  rings 
of  the  fascinating  stranger ! 

It  is,  as  you  will  perceive,  an  admirable  way  to  see 
Paris,  especially  if  you  spend  your  days  reading  the 
English  papers  at  Galignani's,  as  many  of  our  foreign 
tourists  do. 

But  all  this  is  promiscuous,  and  not  to  the  purpose. 
If, — to  continue  on  the  subject  of  hotel  choosing, — if 
you  love  quiet,  heavy  bills,  and  the  best  table-d'hote 
in  the  city,  go,  O  stranger!  to  the  "  Hotel  des  Princes;  " 
it  is  close  to  the  Boulevard,  and  convenient  for  Fras- 
cati's.  The  "  Hotel  Mirabeau  "  possesses  scarcely  less 
attraction;  but  of  this  you  will  find,  in  Mr.  Bulwer's 
"  Autobiography  of  Pelham,"  a  faithful  and  complete 
account.  "  Lawson's  Hotel  "  has  likewise  its  merits,  as 
also  the  "  Hotel  de  Lille,"  which  may  be  described  as  a 
"  second  chop  "  Meurice. 

If  you  are  a  poor  student  come  to  study  the  human- 
ities, or  the  pleasant  art  of  amputation,  cross  the  water 
forthwith,  and  proceed  to  the  "  Hotel  Corneille,"  near 
the  Odeon,  or  others  of  its  species;  there  are  many 
where  you  can  live  royally  (until  you  economize  by  go- 
ing into  lodgings)  on  four  francs  a  day;  and  wliere,  if  by 
any  strange  chance  you  are  desirous  for  a  while  to  get 


AN   INVASION    OF   FRANCE  17 

rid  of  your  countrymen,  you  will  find  that  they  scarcely 
ever  penetrate. 

But  above  all,  O  my  countrymen!  shun  boarding- 
houses,  especially  if  you  have  ladies  in  your,  train;  or 
ponder  well,  and  examine  the  characters  of  the  keepers 
thereof,  before  you  lead  your  innocent  daughters,  and 
their  mamma,  into  places  so  dangerous.  In  the  first 
place,  you  have  bad  dinners;  and,  secondly,  bad  com- 
pany. If  you  play  cards,  you  are  very  likely  playing 
with  a  swindler;  if  you  dance,  you  dance  with  a — per- 
son with  whom  you  had  better  have  nothing  to  do. 

Note  (which  ladies  are  requested  not  to  read).  —In  one  of  these  establishments, 
daily  advertised  as  most  eligible  for  English,  a  friendof  the  writer  lived.  A  lady, 
who  had  passed  for  some  time  as  the  wife  of  one  of  the  inmates,  suddenly  changed 
her  husband  and  name,  her  original  husband  remaining  in  the  house,  and  salut- 
ing her  by  her  new  title. 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS 

A  MILLION  dangers  and  snares  await  the  travel- 
ler, as  soon  as  he  issues  out  of  that  vast  messagerie 
which  we  have  just  quitted:  and  as  each  man  cannot  do 
better  than  relate  such  events  as  have  happened  in  the 
course  of  his  own  experience,  and  may  keep  the  unwary 
from  the  path  of  danger,  let  us  take  this,  the  very  earliest 
opportunity,  of  imparting  to  the  public  a  little  of  the 
wisdom  which  we  painfully  have  acquired. 

And,  first,  then,  with  regard  to  the  city  of  Paris,  it  is 
to  be  remarked,  that  in  that  metropolis  flourish  a  greater 
number  of  native  and  exotic  swindlers  than  are  to  be 
found  in  any  other  European  nursery.  What  young 
Englishman  that  visits  it,  but  has  not  determined,  in  his 
heart,  to  have  a  little  share  of  the  gaieties  that  go  on— 
just  for  once,  just  to  see  what  they  are  like?  How 
many,  when  the  horrible  gambling  dens  were  open,  did 
resist  a  sight  of  them?— nay,  was  not  a  young  fellow 
rather  flattered  by  a  dinner  invitation  from  the  Salon, 
whither  he  went,  fondly  pretending  that  he  should  see 
"  French  society,"  in  the  persons  of  certain  Dukes  and 
Counts  who  used  to  frequent  the  place? 

My  friend  Pogson  is  a  young  fellow,  not  much  worse, 
although  perhaps  a  little  weaker  and  simpler  than  his 
neighbours;  and  coming  to  Paris  with  exactly  the  same 
notions  that  bring  many  others  of  the  British  youth  to 
that  capital,  events  befell  him  there,  last  winter,  which 

18 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS  19 

are  strictly  true,  and  shall  here  be  narrated,  by  way 
of  warning  to  all. 

Pog,  it  must  be  premised,  is  a  city  man,  who  travels 
in  drugs  for  a  couple  of  the  best  London  houses,  blows 
the  flute,  has  an  album,  drives  his  own  gig,  and  is  con- 
sidered, both  on  the  road  and  in  the  metropolis,  a  re- 
markably nice,  intelligent,  thriving  young  man.  Pog- 
son's  only  fault  is  too  great  an  attachment  to  the  fair: 
— "  the  sex,"  as  he  says  often,  "  will  be  his  ruin:  "  the 
fact  is,  that  Pog  never  travels  without  a  "  Don  Juan  " 
under  his  driving-cushion,  and  is  a  pretty-looking  young 
fellow  enough. 

Sam  Pogson  had  occasion  to  visit  Paris,  last  October; 
and  it  was  in  that  city  that  his  love  of  the  sex  had  liked 
to  have  cost  him  dear.  He  worked  his  way  down  to 
Dover;  placing,  right  and  left,  at  the  towns  on  his 
route,  rhubarb,  sodas,  and  other  such  delectable  wares 
as  his  masters  dealt  in  ("  the  sweetest  sample  of  castor 
oil,  smelt  like  a  nosegay — went  off  like  wildfire — hogs- 
head and  a  half  at  Rochester,  eight-and-twenty  gallons 
at  Canterbury,"  and  so  on),  and  crossed  to  Calais,  and 
thence  voyaged  to  Paris  in  the  coupe  of  the  Diligence. 
He  paid  for  two  places,  too,  although  a  single  man,  and 
the  reason  shall  now  be  made  known. 

Dining  at  the  tahle-d-hote  at  "  Quillacq's  "—it  is  the 
best  inn  on  the  Continent  of  Europe — our  little  traveller 
had  the  happiness  to  be  placed  next  to  a  lady,  who  was, 
he  saw  at  a  glance,  one  of  the  extreme  pink  of  the  nobil- 
ity. A  large  lady,  in  black  satin,  with  eyes  and  hair  as 
black  as  sloes,  with  gold  chains,  scent-bottles,  sable  tip- 
pet, worked  pocket-handkerchief,  and  four  twinkling 
rings  on  each  of  her  plump  white  fingers.  Her  cheeks 
were  as  pink  as  the  finest  Chinese  rouge  could  make 


^0  THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 

them.  Pog  knew  the  article:  he  travelled  in  it.  Her 
lips  were  as  red  as  the  ruby  lip  salve:  she  used  the  very- 
best,  that  was  clear. 

She  was  a  fine-looking  woman,  certainly  (holding 
down  her  eyes,  and  talking  perpetually  of  "  mes  trente- 
deux  ans  ")  ;  and  Pogson,  the  wicked  young  dog,  who 
professed  not  to  care  for  young  misses,  saying  they 
smelt  so  of  bread-and-butter,  declared,  at  once,  that  the 
lady  was  one  of  Jiis  beauties;  in  fact,  when  he  spoke  to 
us  about  her,  he  said,  "  She's  a  slap-up  thing,  I  tell  you; 
a  reg'lar  good  one ;  one  of  my  sort! "  And  such  was 
Pogson's  credit  in  all  commercial  rooms,  that  one  of  his 
sort  was  considered  to  surpass  all  other  sorts. 

During  dinner-time,  Mr.  Pogson  was  profoundly  po- 
lite and  attentive  to  the  lady  at  his  side,  and  kindly 
communicated  to  her,  as  is  the  way  with  the  best-bred 
English  on  their  first  arrival  "  on  the  Continent,"  all 
his  impressions  regarding  the  sights  and  persons  he  had 
seen.  Such  remarks  having  been  made  during  half  an 
hour's  ramble  about  the  ramparts  and  town,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  walk  down  to  the  custom-house,  and  a  con- 
fidential communication  with  the  commissionnaire ,  must 
be,  doubtless,  very  valuable  to  Frenchmen  in  their  own 
country ;  and  the  lady  listened  to  Pogson's  opinions :  not 
only  with  benevolent  attention,  but  actually,  she  said, 
with  pleasure  and  delight.  Mr.  Pogson  said  that  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  good  meat  in  France,  and  that's 
why  they  cooked  their  victuals  in  this  queer  way ;  he  had 
seen  many  soldiers  parading  about  the  place,  and  ex- 
pressed a  true  Englishman's  abhorrence  of  an  armed 
force;  not  that  he  feared  such  fellows  as  these — little 
whipper-snappers— our  men  would  eat  them.  Hereupon 
the  lady  admitted  that  our  Guards  were  angels,  but  that 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS  21 

JNIonsieur  must  not  be  too  hard  upon  the  French;  "  her 
father  was  a  general  of  the  Emperor." 

Pogson  felt  a  tremendous  respect  for  himself  at  the 
notion  that  he  was  dining  with  a  General's  daughter,  and 
instantly  ordered  a  bottle  of  champagne  to  keep  up 
his  consequence. 

"  ]\Irs.  Bironn,  ma'am,"  said  he,  for  he  had  heard 
the  waiter  call  her  by  some  such  name,  "  if  you  will 
accept  a  glass  of  champagne,  ma'am,  you'll  do  me,  I'm 
sure,  great  Aonour;  they  say  it's  very  good,  and 
a  precious  sight  cheaper  than  it  is  on  our  side  of  the  way, 
too — not  that  I  care  for  money.  Mrs.  Bironn,  ma'am, 
your  health,  ma'am." 

The  lady  smiled  very  graciously,  and  drank  the  wine. 

"  Har  you  any  relation,  ma'am,  if  I  may  make  so 
bold ;  har  you  anyways  connected  with  the  family  of  our 
immortal  bard?  " 

"  Sir,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  ma'am:  but  ^Bironn  and  Byron  are 
hevidently  the  same  names,  only  you  pronounce  in  the 
French  way;  and  I  thought  you  might  be  related  to  his 
lordship:  his  horigin,  ma'am,  was  of  French  extraction:  " 
and  here  Pogson  began  to  repeat, — 

"  Hare  thy  heyes  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child, 
Hada !  sole  daughter  of  my  'ouse  and  'art?  " 

"  Oh!  "  said  the  lady,  laughing,  "  you  speak  of  Lor 
Byron?" 

"  Hauthor  of  '  Don  Juan,' '  Child  '  Arold,'  and  '  Cain, 
a  Mystery,'"  said  Pogson:— "I  do;  and  hearing  the 
waiter  calling  you  Madam  la  Bironn,  took  the  liberty  of 
basking  whether  you  were  connected  with  his  lordship; 
that's  hall:  "  and  my  friend  here  grew  dreadfully  red, 


22  THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 

« 

and  began  twiddling  his  long  ringlets  in  his  fingers,  and 
examining  very  eagerly  the  contents  of  his  plate. 

"  Oh,  no:  Madame  la  Baronne  means  Mistress  Baron- 
ess; my  husband  was  Baron,  and  I  am  Baroness." 

"  What!  'ave  I  the  honour — I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am 
—is  your  ladyship  a  Baroness,  and  I  not  know  it?  pray 
excuse  me  for  calling  you  ma'am." 

The  Baroness  smiled  most  graciously — with  such  a 
look  as  Juno  cast  upon  unfortunate  Jupiter  when  she 
wished  to  gain  her  wicked  ends  upon  him — the  Baroness 
smiled;  and,  stealing  her  hand  into  a  black  velvet  bag, 
drew  from  it  an  ivory  card-case,  and  from  the  ivory  card- 
case  extracted  a  glazed  card,  printed  in  gold;  on  it 
was  engraved  a  coronet,  and  under  the  coronet  the  words 


BARONNE   DE   FLORVAL-DELVAL, 

NEE    DE    MELVAL-NORVAL. 
Rue  Taitbout, 


The  grand  Pitt  diamond— the  Queen's  own  star  of 
the  garter — a  sample  of  otto-of -roses  at  a  guinea  a  drop, 
would  not  be  handled  more  curiously,  or  more  respect- 
fully, than  this  porcelain  card  of  the  Baroness.  Trem- 
bling he  put  it  into  his  little  Russia-leather  pocketbook : 
and  when  he  ventured  to  look  up,  and  saw  the  eyes  of  the 
Baroness  de  Florval-Delval,  nee  de  Melval-Norval,  gaz- 
ing upon  him  with  friendly  and  serene  glances,  a  thrill  of 
pride  tingled  through  Pogson's  blood :  he  felt  himself  to 
be  the  very  happiest  fellow  "  on  the  Continent." 

But  Pogson  did  not,  for  some  time,  venture  to  resume 
that  sprightly  and  elegant  familiarity  which  generally 
forms  the  great  charm  of  his  conversation:  he  w;as  too 


Mr.  Pogson's  Temptation 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS  23 

much  frightened  at  the  presence  he  was  in,  and  contented 
himself  by  graceful  and  solemn  bows,  deep  attention, 
and  ejaculations  of  "  Yes,  my  lady,"  and  "  No,  your 
ladyship,"  for  some  minutes  after  the  discovery  had  been 
made.  Pogson  piqued  himself  on  his  breeding:  "  I  hate 
the  aristocracy,"  he  said,  "  but  that's  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  behave  like  a  gentleman." 

A  surly,  silent  little  gentleman,  who  had  been  the  third 
at  the  ordinary,  and  would  take  no  part  either  in  the 
conversation  or  in  Pogson's  champagne,  now  took  up  his 
hat,  and,  grunting,  left  the  room,  when  the  happy  bag- 
man had  the  delight  of  a  tete-a-tete.  The  Baroness  did 
not  appear  inclined  to  move :  it  was  cold ;  a  fire  was  com- 
fortable, and  she  had  ordered  none  in  her  apartment. 
]Might  Pogson  give  her  one  more  glass  of  champagne, 
or  would  her  ladyship  prefer  "something  hot?"  Her 
ladyship  gravely  said,  she  never  took  anything  hot. 
"  Some  champagne,  then;  a  leetle  drop?"  She  would! 
she  would!  O  gods!  how  Pogson's  hand  shook  as  he 
filled  and  offered  her  the  glass ! 

What  took  place  during  the  rest  of  the  evening  had 
better  be  described  by  Mr.  Pogson  himself,  who  has 
given  us  permission  to  publish  his  letter. — 

"  Qu'dlacq^s  Hotel  {pronounced  Kilhjax),  Calais. 
"Dear  Tit,  —  I  arrived  at  Cally,  as  they  call  it,  this  day,  or, 
rather,  yesterday;  for  it  is  past  midnight,  as  I  sit  thinking 
of  a  wonderful  adventure  that  has  just  befallen  me.  A  woman, 
in  course;  that's  always  the  case  with  me^  you  know:  but  oh,  Tit! 
if  you  could  but  see  her!  Of  the  first  family  in  France,  the 
Florval-Dclvals,  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  no  more  caring  for 
money  than  I  do  for  split  peas. 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  it  occurred.  Everybody  in  France,  3'ou 
know;  dines  at  the  ordinary— it^s  quite  distangy  to  do  so.  There 
was  only  three  of  us  to-day,  however, — the  Baroness,  me,  and 


24  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

a  gent,  who  never  spoke  a  word;  and  we  didn't  want  him  to, 
neither:  do  you  mark  that? 

"  You  know  my  way  with  the  women :  champagne's  the  thing ; 
make  'em  drink,  make  'em  talk;  —  make  'em  talk,^  make  'cm  do 
anything.  So  I  orders  a  bottle,  as  if  for  myself;  and,  '  Ma'am,' 
says  I,  '  will  you  take  a  glass  of  Sham  —  just  one?  '  Take  it  she 
did — for  you  know  it's  quite  distangy  here:  everybody  dines  at 
the  table  de  hole,  and  everybody  accepts  everybody's  wine.  Bob 
Irons,  who  travels  in  linen  on  our  circuit,  told  me  that  he  had 
made  some  slap-up  acquaintances  among  the  genteelest  people 
at  Paris,  nothing  but  by  offering  them  Sham. 

"  Well,  my  Baroness  takes  one  glass,  two  glasses,  three  glasses 
—  the  old  fellow  goes  —  we  have  a  deal  of  chat  (she  took  me  for  a 
military  man,  she  said :  is  it  not  singular  that  so  many  people 
should?),  and  by  ten  o'clock  we  had  grown  so  intimate,  that  I  had 
from  her  her  whole  history,  knew  where  she  came  from,  and  where 
she  was  going.  Leave  me  alone  with  'em:  I  can  find  out  any 
woman's  history  in  half  an  hour. 

"  And  where  do  you  think  she  is  going?  to  Paris  to  be  sure:  she 
has  her  seat  in  what  they  call  the  coopy  (though  you're  not  near 
so  cooped  in  it  as  in  our  coaches.  I've  been  to  the  office  and  seen 
one  of  'em).  She  has  her  place  in  the  coopy,  and  the  coopy  holds 
three;  so  what  does  Sam  Pogson  do?  —  he  goes  and  takes  the  other 
two.  Ain't  I  up  to  a  thing  or  two?  Oh,  no,  not  the  least;  but  I 
shall  have  her  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  way. 

"  We  shall  be  in  the  French  metropolis  the  day  after  this 
reaches  you:  please  look  out  for  a  handsome  lodging  for  me,  and 
never  mind  the  expense.  And  I  say,  if  you  could,  in  her  hearing, 
when  you  came  down  to  the  coach,  call  me  Captain  Pogson,  I 
wish  you  would — it  sounds  well  travelling,  you  know;  and  when 
she  asked  me  if  I  was  not  an  officer,  I  couldn't  say  no.  Adieu, 
then,  my  dear  fellow,  till  Monday,  and  vivc  Ic  joy,  as  they  say. 
The  Baroness  says  I  speak  French  charmingly,  she  talks  English 
as  well  as  you  or  I. 

"  Your  affectionate  friend, 

"  S.  Pogson." 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS         25 

This  letter  reached  us  duly,  in  our  garrets,  and  we 
engaged  such  an  apartment  for  ISIr.  Pogson,  as  be- 
seemed a  gentleman  of  his  rank  in  the  world  and  the 
army.  At  the  appointed  hour,  too,  we  repaired  to  the 
Diligence  office,  and  there  beheld  the  arrival  of  the 
machine  which  contained  him  and  his  lovely  Baroness. 

Those  who  have  much  frequented  the  society  of  gen- 
tlemen of  his  profession  (and  what  more  delightful?) 
must  be  aware,  that,  when  all  the  rest  of  mankind  look 
hideous,  dirty,  peevish,  wretched,  after  a  forty  hours' 
coach- journey,  a  bagman  appears  as  gay  and  spruce  as 
when  he  started ;  having  within  himself  a  thousand  little 
conveniences  for  the  voyage,  which  common  travellers 
neglect.  Pogson  had  a  little  portable  toilet,  of  which  he 
had  not  failed  to  take  advantage,  and  with  his  long, 
curling,  flaxen  hair,  flowing  under  a  seal-skin  cap,  with 
a  gold  tassel,  with  a  blue  and  gold  satin  handkerchief, 
a  crimson  velvet  waistcoat,  a  light  green  cut-away  coat, 
a  pair  of  barred  brickdust-coloured  pantaloons,  and  a 
neat  mackintosh,  presented,  altogether,  as  elegant  and 
distingue  an  appearance  as  any  one  could  desire.  He 
had  put  on  a  clean  collar  at  breakfast,  and  a  pair  of  white 
kids  as  he  entered  the  barrier,  and  looked,  as  he  rushed 
into  my  arms,  more  like  a  man  stepping  out  of  a  band- 
box, than  one  descending  from  a  vehicle  that  has  just 
performed  one  of  the  laziest,  dullest,  flattest,  stalest,  dir- 
tiest journeys  in  Europe. 

To  my  surprise,  there  were  trco  ladies  in  the  coach 
with  my  friend,  and  not  one,  as  I  had  expected.  One  of 
these,  a  stout  female,  carrying  sundry  baskets,  bags, 
umbrellas,  and  woman's  wraps,  was  evidently  a  maid- 
servant: the  other,  in  black,  was  Pogson's  fair  one,  evi- 
dently.    I  could  see  a  gleam  of  curl-papers  over  a  sal- 


26  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

low  face, — of  a  dusky  night-cap  flapping  over  the 
curl-papers,— but  these  were  hidden  by  a  lace  veil  and  a 
huge  velvet  bonnet,  of  which  the  crowning  birds  of  para- 
dise were  evidently  in  a  moulting  state.  She  was  en- 
cased in  many  shawls  and  wrappers;  she  put,  hesitat- 
ingly, a  pretty  little  foot  out  of  the  carriage— Pogson 
was  by  her  side  in  an  instant,  and,  gallantly  putting  one 
of  his  white  kids  round  her  waist,  aided  this  interest- 
ing creature  to  descend.  I  saw,  by  her  walk,  that 
she  was  five-and-forty,  and  that  my  little  Pogson  was  a 
lost  man. 

After  some  brief  parley  between  them — in  which  it 
was  charming  to  hear  how  my  friend  Samuel  would 
speak,  what  he  called  French,  to  a  lady  who  could  not 
understand  one  syllable  of  his  jargon — the  mutual 
hackney  coaches  drew  up;  Madame  la  Baronne  waved 
to  the  Captain  a  graceful  French  curtsey,  ^^^^you!" 
said  Samuel,  and  waved  his  lily  hand.  " Adijou-ad- 
dimang." 

A  brisk  little  gentleman,  who  had  made  the  journey 
in  the  same  coach  with  Pogson,  but  had  more  modestly 
taken  a  seat  in  the  Imperial,  here  passed  us,  and  greeted 
me  with  a  "  How  d'ye  do?  "  He  had  shouldered  his  own 
little  valise,  and  was  trudging  off,  scattering  a  cloud  of 
cojiimissionnaires,  who  would  fain  have  spared  him  the 
trouble. 

"  Do  you  know  that  chap?  "  says  Pogson;  "  surly  fel- 
low, ain't  he  ? " 

"  The  kindest  man  in  existence,"  answered  I;  "  all  the 
world  knows  little  Major  British." 

"  He's  a  Major,  is  he? — why,  that's  the  fellow  that 
dined  with  us  as  Killyax's;  it's  lucky  I  did  not  call  mv- 
self  Captain  before  him,  he  mightn't  have  liked  it,  you 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS  27 

know:"  and  then  Sam  fell  into  a  reverie; — what  was 
the  subject  of  his  thoughts  soon  appeared. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  foot  and  ankle?  "  said  Sam, 
after  sitting  for  some  time,  regardless  of  the  novelty  of 
the  scene,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  plunged  in  the  deep- 
est thought. 

''Isn't  she  a  slap-up  woman,  eh,  now?  "  pursued  he; 
and  began  enumerating  her  attractions,  as  a  horse- jockey 
would  the  points  of  a  favourite  animal. 

"  You  seem  to  have  gone  a  pretty  length  already," 
said  I,  "  by  promising  to  visit  her  to-morrow." 

"A  good  length?— I  believe  you.  Leave  ?7ie  alone 
for  that." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  only  to  be  two  in  the  coupe, 
you  wicked  rogue." 

"  Two  in  the  cooyy?  Oh!  ah!  yes,  you  know — why, 
that  is,  I  didn't  know  she  had  her  maid  with  her  (what 
an  ass  I  was  to  think  of  a  noblewoman  travelling  with- 
out one!)  and  couldn't,  in  course,  refuse,  when  she  asked 
me  to  let  the  maid  in." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Couldn't,  you  know,  as  a  man  of  honour;  but  I  made 
up  for  all  that,"  said  Pogson,  winking  slily,  and  putting 
his  hand  to  his  little  bunch  of  a  nose,  in  a  very  knowing 
way. 

"You  did,  and  how?" 

"  Why,  you  dog,  I  sat  next  to  her;  sat  in  the  middle 
the  whole  way,  and  my  back's  half  broke,  I  can  tell 
you:  "  and  thus,  having  depicted  his  happiness,  we  soon 
reached  the  inn  where  this  back-broken  young  man  was 
to  lodge  during  his  stay  in  Paris. 

The  next  day,  at  five,  we  met;  Mr.  Pogson  had  seen 
his  Baroness,  and  described  her  lodgings,  in  his  own  ex- 


28  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

pressive  way,  as  "  slap-up."  She  had  received  him  quite 
like  an  old  friend;  treated  him  to  eau  sucree,  of  which 
beverage  he  expressed  himself  a  great  admirer;  and  ac- 
tually asked  him  to  dine  the  next  day.  But  there  was 
a  cloud  over  the  ingenuous  youth's  brow,  and  I  inquired 
still  farther. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  thought  she  was  a 
widow ;  and,  hang  it !  who  should  come  in  but  her  husband 
the  Baron:  a  big  fellow,  sir,  with  a  blue  coat,  a  red  rib- 
bing, and  such  a  pair  of  mustachios!  " 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  he  didn't  turn  you  out,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  on  the  contrary,  as  kind  as  possible ;  his  lord- 
ship said  that  he  respected  the  English  army;  asked  me 
what  corps  I  was  in,— said  he  had  fought  in  Spain 
against  us, — and  made  me  welcome." 

"  What  could  you  want  more?  " 

Mr.  Pogson  at  this  only  whistled;  and  if  some  very 
profound  observer  of  human  nature  had  been  there  to 
read  into  this  little  bagman's  heart,  it  would,  perhaps, 
have  been  manifest,  that  the  appearance  of  a  whiskered 
soldier  of  a  husband  had  counteracted  some  plans  that 
the  young  scoundrel  was  concocting. 

I  live  up  a  hundred  and  thirty-seven  steps  in  the  re- 
mote quarter  of  the  Luxembourg,  and  it  is  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  such  a  fashionable  fellow  as  Sam  Pogson, 
with  his  pockets  full  of  money,  and  a  new  city  to  see, 
should  be  always  wandering  to  my  dull  quarters ;  so  that, 
although  he  did  not  make  his  appearance  for  some  time, 
he  must  not  be  accused  of  any  lukewarmness  of  friend- 
ship on  that  score. 

He  was  out,  too,  when  I  called  at  his  hotel ;  but  once, 
I  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  him,  with  his  hat  curiously 
on  one  side,  looking  as  pleased  as  Punch,  and  being 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS         29 

driven,  in  an  open  cab,  in  the  Champs  Elysees.  "  That's 
another  tip-top  chap,"  said  he,  when  we  met,  at  length. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  an  Earl's  son,  my  boy?  Hon- 
ourable Tom  Ringwood,  son  of  the  Earl  of  Cinqbars: 
what  do  you  think  of  that,  eh?  " 

I  thought  he  was  getting  into  very  good  society.  Sam 
was  a  dashing  fellow,  and  was  always  above  his  own  line 
of  life;  he  had  met  Mr.  Ringwood  at  the  Baron's,  and 
they'd  been  to  the  play  together;  and  the  honourable 
gent,  as  Sam  called  him,  had  joked  with  him  about  being 
well  to  do  in  a  certain  quarter;  and  he  had  had  a  game 
of  billiards  with  the  Baron,  at  the  Estaminy,  "  a  very  dis- 
tangy  place,  where  you  smoke,"  said  Sam ;  "  quite  select, 
and  frequented  by  the  tip-top  nobility ;  "  and  they  were 
as  thick  as  peas  in  a  shell ;  and  they  were  to  dine  that  day 
at  Ringwood's,  and  sup,  the  next  night,  with  the  Bar- 
oness. 

"  I  think  the  chaps  down  the  road  will  stare,"  said 
Sam,  "  when  they  hear  how  I've  been  coming  it."  And 
stare,  no  doubt,  they  would;  for  it  is  certain  that  very 
few  commercial  gentlemen  have  had  Mr.  Pogson's  ad- 
vantages. 

The  next  morning  we  had  made  an  arrangement  to 
go  out  shopping  together,  and  to  purchase  some  articles 
of  female  gear,  that  Sam  intended  to  bestow  on  his  rela- 
tions when  he  returned.  Seven  needle-books,  for  his 
sisters ;  a  gilt  buckle,  for  his  mamma ;  a  handsome  French 
cashmere  shawl  and  bonnet,  for  his  aunt  (the  old  lady 
keeps  an  inn  in  the  Borough,  and  has  plenty  of  money, 
and  no  heirs)  ;  and  a  tooth-pick  case,  for  his  father. 
Sam  is  a  good  fellow  to  all  his  relations,  and  as  for 
his  aunt,  he  adores  her.  Well,  we  were  to  go  and  make 
these    purchases,    and    I    arrived    punctually    at    my 


30  THE    PARIS  SKETCH  BOOK 

time;  but  Sam  was  stretched  on  a  sofa,  very  pale  and 
dismal. 

I  saw  how  it  had  been.—"  A  little  too  much  of  Mr. 
Ringwood's  claret,  I  suppose?" 

He  only  gave  a  sickly  stare. 

"  Where  does  the  Honourable  Tom  live?  "  says  I. 

"  Honourable! "  says  Sam,  with  a  hollow,  horrid 
laugh ;  "  I  tell  you.  Tit,  he's  no  more  Honourable  than 
you  are." 

"  What,  an  impostor?  " 

"  No,  no;  not  that.    He  is  a  real  Honourable,  only — " 

"  Oh,  ho!  I  smell  a  rat— a  little  jealous,  eh?  " 

"Jealousy  be  hanged!  I  tell  you  he's  a  thief;  and 
the  Baron's  a  thief;  and,  hang  me,  if  I  think  his  wife  is 
any  better.  Eight-and-thirty  pounds  he  won  of  me  be- 
fore supper;  and  made  me  drunk,  and  sent  me  home: — 
is  thai  honourable?  How  can  I  afford  to  lose  forty 
'pounds?  It's  took  me  two  years  to  save  it  up: — if  my 
old  aunt  gets  wind  of  it,  she'll  cut  me  off  with  a  shilling : 
hang  me!" — and  here  Sam,  in  an  agony,  tore  his  fair 
hair. 

While  bewailing  his  lot  in  this  lamentable  strain,  his 
bell  was  rung,  which  signal  being  answered  by  a  surly 
"  Come  in,"  a  tall,  very  fashionable  gentleman,  with 
a  fur  coat,  and  a  fierce  tuft  to  his  chin,  entered  the 
room.  "  Pogson,  my  buck,  how  goes  it? "  said  he, 
familiarly,  and  gave  a  stare  at  me :  I  was  making  for  my 
hat. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  Sam,  rather  eagerly;  and  I  sat  down 
again. 

The  Honourable  Mr.  Ringwood  hummed  and  ha'd: 
and,  at  last,  said  he  wished  to  speak  to  Mr.  Pogson  on 
business,  in  private,  if  possible. 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS  31 

"  There's  no  secrets  betwixt  me  and  my  friend,"  cried 
Sam. 

]Mr.  Ring  wood  paused  a  little: — "  An  awkward  busi- 
ness that  of  last  night,"  at  length  exclaimed  he. 

"  I  believe  it  was  an  awkward  business,"  said  Sam, 
drily. 

"  I  really  am  very  soriy  for  your  losses." 

"  Thank  you:  and  so  am  I,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Sam. 

"  You  must  mind,  my  good  fellow,  and  not  drink; 
for,  when  you  drink,  you  will  play  high :  by  Gad,  you  led 
us  in,  and  not  we  you." 

"  I  dare  say,"  answered  Sam,  with  something  of  pee- 
vishness; "  losses  is  losses:  there's  no  use  talking  about 
'em  when  they're  over  and  paid." 

"And  paid?"  here  wonderingly  spoke  Mr.  Ring- 
wood;  "  why,  my  dear  f  el— what  the  deuce— has  Florval 
been  with  you?  " 

"  D—  Florval!  "  growled  Sam,  "  I've  never  set  eyes 
on  his  face  since  last  night;  and  never  wish  to  see  him 
again." 

"  Come,  come,  enough  of  this  talk;  how  do  you  intend 
to  settle  the  bills  which  you  gave  him  last  night  ?  " 

"  Bills!  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean,  sir,  these  bills,"  said  the  Honourable  Tom, 
producing  two  out  of  his  pocket-book,  and  looking  as 
stern  as  a  lion.  "  '  I  promise  to  pay,  on  demand,  to  the 
Baron  de  Florval,  the  sum  of  four  hundred  pounds. 
October  20,  1838.'  '  Ten  days  after  date  I  promise  to 
pay  the  Baron  de  et  csetera,  et  ceetera,  one  hundred  and 
ninety-eight  pounds.  Samuel  Pogson.'  You  didn't  say 
what  regiment  you  were  in." 

"  AVhat!  "  shouted  poor  Sam,  as  from  a  dream,  start- 
ing up  and  looking  preternaturally  pale  and  hideous. 


32  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

"D—  it,  sir,  you  don't  affect  ignorance:  you  don't 
pretend  not  to  remember  that  you  signed  these  bills,  for 
money  lost  in  my  rooms:  money  lent  to  you,  by  ^ladame 
de  Florval,  at  your  own  request,  and  lost  to  her  husband  ? 
You  don't  suppose,  sir,  that  I  shall  be  such  an  infernal 
idiot  as  to  believe  you,  or  such  a  coward  as  to  put  up 
with  a  mean  subterfuge  of  this  sort.  Will  you,  or  will 
you  not,  pay  the  money,  sir?  " 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Sam,  stoutly;  "  it's  a  d— d  swin— " 

Here  Mr.  Ringwood  sprung  up,  clenching  his  riding- 
whip,  and  looking  so  fierce  that  Sam  and  I  bounded  back 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  "  Utter  that  word  again, 
and,  by  heaven,  I'll  murder  you!"  shouted  Mr.  Ring- 
wood,  and  looked  as  if  he  would,  too:  "  once  more,  will 
you,  or  will  you  not,  pay  this  money?  " 

"  I  can't,"  said  Sam,  faintly. 

"  I'll  call  again,  Captain  Pogson,"  said  Mr.  Ring- 
wood,  "  I'll  call  again  in  one  hour;  and,  unless  you  come 
to  some  arrangement,  you  must  meet  my  friend,  the 
Baron  de  Florval,  or  I'll  post  you  for  a  swindler  and  a 
coward."  With  this  he  went  out :  the  door  thundered  to 
after  him,  and  when  the  clink  of  his  steps  departing  had 
subsided,  I  was  enabled  to  look  round  at  Pog.  The 
poor  little  man  had  his  elbows  on  the  marble  table,  his 
head  between  his  hands,  and  looked,  as  one  has  seen  gen- 
tlemen look  over  a  steam-vessel  off  Ramsgate,  the  wind 
blowing  remarkably  fresh:  at  last  he  fairly  burst  out 
crying. 

"  If  Mrs.  Pogson  heard  of  this,"  said  I,  "  what  would 
become  of  the  '  Three  Tuns?'  "  (for  I  wished  to  give  him 
a  lesson).  "  If  your  Ma,  who  took  you  every  Sunday 
to  meeting,  sliould  know  that  her  boy  was  paying  atten- 
tion to  married  women;— if  Drench,  Glauber  and  Co., 


A  CAUTION   TO  TRAVELLERS         33 

your  employers,  were  to  know  that  their  confiden- 
tial agent  was  a  gambler,  and  unfit  to  be  trusted  with 
their  money,  how  long  do  you  think  your  connexion 
would  last  with  them,  and  who  would  afterwards  employ 
you?" 

To  this  poor  Pog  had  not  a  word  of  answer;  but  sat 
on  his  sofa  whimpering  so  bitterly,  that  the  sternest  of 
moralists  would  have  relented  towards  him,  and  would 
have  been  touched  by  the  little  wretch's  tears.  Every- 
thing, too,  must  be  pleaded  in  excuse  for  this  unfor- 
tunate bagman :  who,  if  he  wished  to  pass  for  a  captain, 
had  only  done  so  because  he  had  an  intense  respect  and 
longing  for  rank :  if  he  had  made  love  to  the  Baroness, 
had  only  done  so  because  he  was  given  to  understand 
by  Lord  Byron's  "  Don  Juan  "  that  making  love  was 
a  very  correct,  natty  thing :  and  if  he  had  gambled,  had 
only  been  induced  to  do  so  by  the  bright  eyes  and  exam- 
ple of  the  Baron  and  the  Baroness.  O  ye  Barons  and 
Baronesses  of  England!  if  ye  knew  what  a  number  of 
small  commoners  are  daily  occupied  in  studying  your 
lives,  and  imitating  your  aristocratic  ways,  how  careful 
would  ye  be  of  your  morals,  manners,  and  conversation ! 

My  soul  was  filled,  then,  with  a  gentle  yearning  pity 
for  Pogson,  and  revolved  many  plans  for  his  rescue: 
none  of  these  seeming  to  be  practicable,  at  last  we  hit  on 
the  very  wisest  of  all,  and  determined  to  apply  for  coun- 
sel to  no  less  a  person  than  Major  British. 

A  blessing  it  is  to  be  acquainted  with  my  worthy 
friend,  little  Major  British;  and  heaven,  sure,  it  was  that 
put  the  Major  into  my  head,  when  I  heard  of  this  awk- 
ward scrape  of  poor  Pog's.  The  Major  is  on  half -pay, 
and  occupies  a  modest  apartment  au  quatrieme,  in  the 
very  hotel  which  Pogson  had  patronized  at  my  sugges- 


34  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

tion;  indeed,  I  had  chosen  it  from  Major  British's  own 
pecuhar  recommendation. 

There  is  no  better  guide  to  follow  than  such  a  char- 
acter as  the  honest  Major,  of  whom  there  are  many  like- 
nesses now  scattered  over  the  continent  of  Europe :  men 
who  love  to  live  well,  and  are  forced  to  live  cheaply,  and 
who  find  the  English  abroad  a  thousand  times  easier, 
merrier,  and  more  hospitable  than  the  same  persons  at 
home.  I,  for  my  part,  never  landed  on  Calais  pier 
without  feeling  that  a  load  of  sorrows  was  left  on  the 
other  side  of  the  water;  and  have  always  fancied  that 
black  care  stepped  on  board  the  steamer,  along  with 
the  custom-house  officers,  at  Gravesend,  and  accompa- 
nied one  to  yonder  black  louring  towers  of  London — so 
busy,  so  dismal,  and  so  vast. 

British  would  have  cut  any  foreigner's  throat  who 
ventured  to  say  so  much,  but  entertained,  no  doubt, 
private  sentiments  of  this  nature;  for  he  passed 
eight  months  of  the  year,  regularly,  abroad,  with  head- 
quarters at  Paris  (the  garrets  before  alluded  to),  and 
only  went  to  England  for  the  month's  shooting,  on 
the  grounds  of  his  old  colonel,  now  an  old  lord,  of 
whose  acquaintance  the  Major  was  passably  inclined  to 
boast. 

He  loved  and  respected,  like  a  good  staunch  Tory  as  he 
is,  every  one  of  the  English  nobility;  gave  himself  cer- 
tain little  airs  of  a  man  of  fashion,  that  were  by  no 
means  disagreeable ;  and  was,  indeed,  kindly  regarded  by 
such  English  aristocracy  as  he  met,  in  his  little  annual 
tours  among  the  German  courts,  in  Italy  or  in  Paris, 
where  he  never  missed  an  ambassador's  night :  he  retailed 
to  us,  who  didn't  go,  but  were  delighted  to  know  all 
that  had  taken  place,  accurate  accounts  of  the  dishes, 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS  35 

the  dresses,  and  the  scandal  which  had  there  fallen  under 
his  observation. 

He  is,  moreover,  one  of  the  most  useful  persons  in 
society  that  can  possibly  be ;  for  besides  being  incorrigi- 
bly duelsome  on  his  own  account,  he  is,  for  others,  the 
most  acute  and  peaceable  counsellor  in  the  world,  and 
has  carried  more  friends  through  scrapes  and  prevented 
more  deaths  than  any  member  of  the  Humane  Society. 
British  never  bought  a  single  step  in  the  army,  as  is  well 
known.  In  '14  he  killed  a  celebrated  French  fire-eater, 
who  had  slain  a  young  friend  of  his,  and  living,  as  he 
does,  a  great  deal  with  young  men  of  pleasure,  and  good 
old  sober  family  people,  he  is  loved  by  them  both,  and 
has  as  welcome  a  place  made  for  him  at  a  roaring  bache- 
lor's supper  at  the  "  Cafe  Anglais,"  as  at  a  staid  dow- 
ager's dinner-table  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  Such 
pleasant  old  boys  are  very  profitable  acquaintances,  let 
me  tell  you ;  and  lucky  is  the  young  man  who  has  one  or 
two  such  friends  in  his  list. 

Hurrying  on  Pogson  in  his  dress,  I  conducted  him, 
panting,  up  to  the  JMajor's  quatrieme,  where  we  were 
cheerfully  bidden  to  come  in.  The  little  gentleman 
was  in  his  travelling  jacket,  and  occupied  in  painting, 
elegantly,  one  of  those  natty  pairs  of  boots  in  which  he 
daily  promenaded  the  Boulevards.  A  couple  of  pairs 
of  tough  buff  gloves  had  been  undergoing  some  pipe- 
claying operation  under  his  hands ;  no  man  stepped  out 
so  spick  and  span,  with  a  hat  so  nicely  biTished,  with  a 
stiff  cravat  tied  so.neatly  under  a  fat  little  red  face,  with 
a  blue  frock-coat  so  scrupulously  fitted  to  a  punchy  little 
person,  as  Major  British,  about  whom  we  have  written 
these  two  pages.  He  stared  rather  hardly  at  my  com- 
panion, but  gave  me  a  kind  shake  of  the  hand,  and  we 


36  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

proceeded  at  once  to  business.  "  Major  British,"  said  I, 
"  we  want  your  advice  in  regard  to  an  unpleasant  affair 
which  has  just  occurred  to  my  friend  Pogson." 

"  Pogson,  take  a  chair." 

"  You  must  know,  sir,  that  Mr.  Pogson,  coming  from 
Calais  the  other  day,  encountered,  in  the  diligence,  a 
very  handsome  woman." 

British  winked  at  Pogson,  who,  wretched  as  he  was, 
could  not  help  feeling  pleased. 

"  Mr.  Pogson  was  not  more  pleased  with  this  lovely 
creature  than  was  she  with  him ;  for,  it  appears,  she  gave 
him  her  card,  invited  him  to  her  house,  where  he  has 
been  constantly,  and  has  been  received  with  much  kind- 
ness." 

"  I  see,"  says  British. 

"Her  husband  the  Baron—" 

"  Now  it's  coming,"  said  the  Major,  with  a  grin:  "  her 
husband  is  jealous,  I  suppose,  and  there  is  a  talk  of  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne:  my  dear  sir,  you  can't  refuse — can't 
refuse." 

"  It's  not  that,"  said  Pogson,  wagging  his  head  pas- 
sionately. 

"  Her  husband  the  Baron  seemed  quite  as  much  taken 
with  Pogson  as  his  lady  was,  and  has  introduced  him 
to  some  very  distingue  friends  of  his  own  set.  Last 
night  one  of  the  Baron's  friends  gave  a  party  in  honour 
of  my  friend  Pogson,  who  lost  forty-eight  pounds  at 
cards  before  he  was  made  drunk,  and  heaven  knows  how 
much  after." 

"  Not  a  shilling,  by  sacred  heaven!— not  a  shilling!  " 
yelled  out  Pogson.  "  After  the  supper  I  'ad  such  an 
'eadach',  I  couldn't  do  anything  but  fall  asleep  on  the 
sofa." 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS  37 

"  You  'ad  such  an  'eadach',  sir,"  saj^s  British  sternly, 
who  piques  himself  on  his  grammar  and  pronunciation, 
and  scorns  a  cockney. 

"  Such  a  /i-eadache,  sir,"  replied  Pogson,  with  much 
meekness. 

"  The  unfortunate  man  is  brought  home  at  two  o'clock, 
as  tipsy  as  possible,  dragged  upstairs,  senseless,  to  bed, 
and,  on  waking,  receives  a  visit  from  his  entertainer  of 
the  night  before — a  lord's  son,  JNIajor,  a  tip-top  fellow, 
who  brings  a  couple  of  bills  that  my  friend  Pogson  is 
said  to  have  signed." 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  the  thing's  quite  simple,— he 
must  pay  them." 

"  I  can't  pay  them." 

"  He  can't  pay  them,"  said  we  both  in  a  breath:  "  Pog- 
son is  a  commercial  traveller,  with  thirty  shillings  a  week, 
and  how  the  deuce  is  he  to  pay  five  hundred  pounds?  " 

"A  bagman,  sir!  and  what  right  has  a  bagman  to 
gamble?  Gentlemen  gamble,  sir;  tradesmen,  sir,  have 
no  business  with  the  amusements  of  the  gentry.  What 
business  had  you  with  barons  and  lords'  sons,  sir? — serve 
you  right,  sir." 

"  Sir,"  says  Pogson,  with  some  dignity,  "  merit,  and 
not  birth,  is  the  criterion  of  a  man:  I  despise  an  heredi- 
tary aristocracy,  and  admire  only  Nature's  gentlemen. 
For  my  part,  I  think  that  a  British  merch— " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  bounced  out  the  INIajor, 
"  and  don't  lecture  me ;  don't  come  to  me,  sir,  with  your 
slang  about  Nature's  gentlemen — Nature's  tomfools, 
sir!  Did  Nature  open  a  cash  account  for  you  at  a 
banker's,  sir?  Did  Nature  give  you  an  education,  sir? 
What  do  you  mean  by  competing  with  people  to  whom 
Nature  has  given  all  these  things?    Stick  to  your  bags. 


38  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Mr.  Pogson,  and  your  bagmen,  and  leave  barons  and 
their  like  to  their  own  ways." 

"  Yes,  but,  Major,"  here  cried  that  faithful  friend, 
who  has  always  stood  by  Pogson;  "  they  won't  leave  him 
alone." 

"  The  honourable  gent  says  I  must  fight  if  I  don't 
pay,"  whimpered  Sam. 

"  What !  fight  you?  Do  you  mean  that  the  honourable 
gent,  as  you  call  him,  will  go  out  with  a  bagman?  " 

"  He  doesn't  know  I'm  a— I'm  a  commercial  man," 
blushingly  said  Sam:  "  he  fancies  I'm  a  military  gent." 

The  Major's  gravity  was  quite  upset  at  this  absurd 
notion ;  and  he  laughed  outrageously.  "  Why,  the  fact 
is,  sir,"  said  I,  "  that  my  friend  Pogson,  knowing  the 
value  of  the  title  of  Captain,  and  being  complimented 
by  the  Baroness  on  his  warlike  appearance,  said,  boldly, 
he  was  in  the  army.  He  only  assumed  the  rank  in  order 
to  dazzle  her  weak  imagination,  never  fancying  that 
there  was  a  husband,  and  a  circle  of  friends,  with  whom 
he  was  afterwards  to  make  an  acquaintance;  and  then, 
you  know,  it  was  too  late  to  withdraw." 

"  A  pretty  pickle  you  have  put  yourself  in,  Mr.  Pog- 
son, by  making  love  to  other  men's  wives,  and  calling 
yourself  names,"  said  the  Major,  who  was  restored  to 
good  humour.  "  And  pray,  who  is  the  honourable 
gent.? " 

"  The  Earl  of  Cinqbars'  son,"  says  Pogson,  "  the 
Honourable  Tom  Ringwood." 

"  I  thought  it  was  some  such  character:  and  the  Baron 
is  the  Baron  de  Florval-Delval?  " 

"  The  very  same." 

"  And  his  wife  a  black -haired  woman,  with  a  pretty 
foot  and  ankle;  calls  herself  Athenais;  and  is  always 


A  CAUTION  TO  TRAVELLERS  39 

talking  about  her  trente-deux  ans  ?  Why,  sir,  that  woman 
was  an  actress  on  the  Boulevard,  when  we  were  here  in 
'15.  She's  no  more  his  wife  than  I  am.  Delval's  name  is 
Chicot.  The  woman  is  always  travellmg  between  Lon- 
don and  Paris :  I  saw  she  was  hooking  you  at  Calais ;  she 
has  hooked  ten  men,  in  the  course  of  the  last  two  years, 
in  this  very  way.  She  lent  you  money,  didn't  she?" 
"  Yes."  "  And  she  leans  on  your  shoulder  and  whispers, 
'  Play  half  for  me,'  and  somebody  wins  it,  and  the  poor 
thing  is  as  sorry  as  you  are,  and  her  husband  storms 
and  rages,  and  insists  on  double  stakes;  and  she  leans 
over  your  shoulder  again,  and  tells  every  card  in  your 
hand  to  your  adversary,  and  that's  the  way  it's  done, 
Mr.  Pogson." 

"  I've  been  'ad,  I  see  I  'ave,"  said  Pogson,  very 
humbly. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  Major,  "  in  consideration,  not  of 
you,  sir— for,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Pogson, 
that  you  are  a  pitiful  little  scoundrel — in  consideration 
for  my  Lord  Cinqbars,  sir,  with  whom,  I  am  proud  to 
say,  I  am  intimate,"  (the  Major  dearly  loved  a  lord,  and 
was,  by  his  own  showing,  acquainted  with  half  the  peer- 
age,) "  I  will  aid  you  in  this  affair.  Your  cursed  vanity, 
sir,  and  want  of  principle,  has  set  you,  in  the  first  place, 
intriguing  with  other  men's  wives;  and  if  you  had  been 
shot  for  your  pains,  a  bullet  would  have  only  served  you 
right,  sir.  You  must  go  about  as  an  impostor,  sir,  in 
society;  and  you  pay  richly  for  your  swindling,  sir,  by 
being  swindled  yourself :  but,  as  I  think  your  punishment 
has  been  already  pretty  severe,  I  shall  do  my  best,  out  of 
regard  of  my  friend,  Lord  Cinqbars,  to  prevent  the  mat- 
ter going  any  farther;  and  I  recommend  you  to  leave 
Paris  without  delay.    Now  let  me  wish  you  a  good  morn- 


40  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

ing." — Wherewith  British  made  a  majestic  bow,  and  be- 
gan giving  the  last  touch  to  liis  varnished  boots. 

We  departed:  poor  Sam  perfectly  silent  and  chap- 
fallen  ;  and  I  meditating  on  the  wisdom  of  the  half -pay 
philosopher,  and  wondering  what  means  he  would  em- 
ploy to  rescue  Pogson  from  liis  fate. 

What  these  means  were  I  know  not;  but  Mr.  Ring- 
wood  did  7iot  make  his  appearance  at  six;  and,  at  eight, 
a  letter  arrived  for  "  Mr.  Pogson,  commercial  traveller," 
&c.  &c.  It  was  blank  inside,  but  contained  his  two  bills. 
Mr.  Ringwood  left  town,  almost  immediately,  for  Vi- 
enna; nor  did  the  Major  explain  the  circumstances  which 
caused  his  departure;  but  he  muttered  something  about 
"  knew  some  of  his  old  tricks,"  "  threatened  police,  and 
made  him  disgorge  directly." 

Mr.  Ringwood  is,  as  yet,  young  at  his  trade;  and  I 
have  often  thought  it  was  very  green  of  him  to  give  up 
the  bills  to  the  JMajor,  who,  certainly,  would  never  have 
pressed  the  matter  before  the  police,  out  of  respect  for  his 
friend.  Lord  Cinqbars. 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY 

IN  A  LETTER  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "  BUNGAY  BEACON  " 

Paris,  July  30th,  1839. 

WE  have  arrived  here  just  in  time  for  the  fetes  of 
July. — You  have  read,  no  doubt,  of  that  glori- 
ous revolution  which  took  place  here  nine  years  ago,  and 
which  is  now  commemorated  annually,  in  a  pretty  face- 
tious manner,  by  gun-firing,  student-processions,  pole- 
climbing-for-silver-spoons,  gold-watches  and  legs-of- 
mutton,  monarchical  orations,  and  what  not,  and  sanc- 
tioned, moreover,  by  Chamber-of-Deputies,  with  a  grant 
of  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  francs  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  all  the  crackers,  gun-firings,  and  legs-of- 
mutton  aforesaid.  There  is  a  new  fountain  in  the  Place 
Louis  Quinze,  otherwise  called  the  Place  Louis  Seize,  or 
else  the  Place  de  la  Revolution,  or  else  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  (who  can  say  why?)  — wliich,  I  am  told,  is  to 
run  bad  wine  during  certain  hours  to-morrow,  and  there 
would  have  been  a  review  of  the  National  Guards  and 
the  Line — only,  since  the  Fieschi  business,  reviews  are  no 
joke,  and  so  this  latter  part  of  the  festivity  has  been  dis- 
continued. 

Do  you  not  laugh,  O  Pharos  of  Bungay,  at  the 
continuance  of  a  humbug  such  as  this? — at  the  humbug- 
ging anniversary  of  a  humbug?  The  King  of  the  Bar- 
ricades is,  next  to  the  Emperor  Nicholas,  the  most  abso- 
lute Sovereign  in  Europe;  yet  there  is  not  in  the  whole 
of  this  fair  kingdom  of  France  a  single  man  who  cares 

41 


42  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

sixpence  about  him,  or  his  dynasty:  except,  mayhap,  a 
few  hangers-on  at  the  Chateau,  who  eat  his  dinners,  and 
put  their  hands  in  his  purse.  The  feehng  of  loyalty  is 
as  dead  as  old  Charles  the  Tenth;  the  Chambers  have 
been  laughed  at,  the  country  has  been  laughed  at,  all  the 
successive  ministries  have  been  laughed  at  (and  you  know 
who  is  the  wag  that  has  amused  himself  with  them  all)  ; 
and,  behold,  here  come  three  days  at  the  end  of  July,  and 
cannons  think  it  necessary  to  fire  off,  squibs  and  crack- 
ers to  blaze  and  fizz,  fountains  to  run  wine,  kings  to 
make  speeches,  and  subjects  to  crawl  up  greasy  mats- 
de-cocagne  in  token  of  gratitude  and  rejouissance  pub- 
lique! — My  dear  sir,  in  their  aptitude  to  swallow,  to 
utter,  to  enact  humbugs,  these  French  people,  from 
Majesty  downwards,  beat  all  the  other  nations  of  this 
earth.  In  looking  at  these  men,  their  manners,  dresses, 
opinions,  politics,  actions,  history,  it  is  impossible  to  pre- 
serve a  grave  countenance ;  instead  of  having  Carlyle  to 
write  a  History  of  the  French  Revolution,  I  often  think 
it  should  be  handed  over  to  Dickens  or  Theodore  Hook: 
and  oh !  where  is  the  Rabelais  to  be  the  faithful  historian 
of  the  last  phase  of  the  Revolution — the  last  glorious 
nine  years  of  which  we  are  now  commemorating  the  last 
glorious  three  days? 

I  had  made  a  vow  not  to  say  a  syllable  on  the  subject, 
although  I  have  seen,  with  my  neighbours,  all  the  ginger- 
bread stills  down  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  some  of  the 
"  catafalques  "  erected  to  the  memor}'"  of  the  heroes  of 
July,  where  the  students  and  others,  not  connected  per- 
sonally with  the  victims,  and  not  having  in  the  least  prof- 
ited by  their  deaths,  come  and  weep ;  but  the  grief  shown 
on  the  first  day  is  quite  as  absurd  and  fictitious  as  the 
joy  exhibited  on  the  last.    The  subject  is  one  which  ad- 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY  48 

mits  of  much  wholesome  reflection  and  food  for  mirth; 
and,  besides,  is  so  richly  treated  by  the  French  them- 
selves, that  it  would  be  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  pass  it  over. 
Allow  me  to  have  the  honour  of  translating,  for  your 
edification,  an  account  of  the  first  day's  proceedings — it 
is  mighty  amusing,  to  my  thinking. 

CELEBRATION  OF  THE  DAYS  OF  JULY 

"To-day  (Saturday),  funeral  ceremonies,  in  honour 
of  the  victims  of  July,  were  held  in  the  various  edifices 
consecrated  to  public  worship. 

"  These  edifices,  with  the  exception  of  some  churches 
(especially  that  of  the  Petits-Peres),  were  uniformly 
hung  with  black  on  the  outside;  the  hangings  bore  only 
this  inscription:  27,  28,  29  July,  1830— surrounded  by  a 
wreath  of  oak-leaves. 

"  In  the  interior  of  the  Catholic  churches,  it  had  only 
been  thought  proper  to  dress  little  catafalques,  as  for 
burials  of  the  third  and  fourth  class.  Very  few  clergy 
attended;  but  a  considerable  number  of  the  National 
Guard. 

"  The  Synagogue  of  the  Israelites  was  entirely  hung 
with  black;  and  a  great  concourse  of  people  attended. 
The  service  was  performed  with  the  greatest  pomp. 

"  In  the  Protestant  temples  there  was  likewise  a  very 
full  attendance:  apologetical  discourses  on  the  Revolu- 
tion of  July  were  pronounced  by  the  pastors. 

"  The  absence  of  M.  de  Quelen  (Archbishop  of 
Paris),  and  of  many  members  of  the  superior  clergy, 
was  remarked  at  Notre  Dame. 

"  The  civil  authorities  attended  serv^ice  in  their  several 
districts. 


44  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

"  The  poles,  ornamented  with  tri-coloured  flags,  which 
formerly  were  placed  on  Notre  Dame,  were,  it  was  re- 
marked, suppressed.  The  flags  on  the  Pont  Neuf  were, 
during  the  ceremony,  only  half-mast  high,  and  covered 
with  crape." 

Et  c^etera,  et  c^etera,  et  ca^tera. 

"  The  tombs  of  the  Louvre  were  covered  with  black 
hangings,  and  adorned  with  tri-coloured  flags.  In  front 
and  in  the  middle  was  erected  an  expiatory  monument 
of  a  pyramidical  shape,  and  surmounted  by  a  funeral 
vase. 

"  These  tombs  were  guarded  by  the  Municipal 
Guard,  the  Troops  of  the  Line,  the  Sergens  de 
ViLLE  {town  patrol),  and  a  Brigade  of  Agents  of 
Police  in  plain  clothes,  under  the  orders  of  peace- 
officer  Vassal. 

"  Between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock,  some  young  men, 
to  the  number  of  400  or  500,  assembled  on  the  Place  de 
la  Bourse,  one  of  them  bearing  a  tri-coloured  banner  with 
an  inscription,  '  To  the  Manes  of  July:  '  ranging 
themselves  in  order,  they  marched  five  abreast  to  the 
INIarchedes  Innocens.  On  their  arrival,  the  JNIunicipal 
Guards  of  the  Halle  aux  Draps,  where  the  post  had  been 
doubled,  issued  out  without  arms,  and  the  town-ser- 
geants placed  themselves  before  the  market  to  prevent 
the  entry  of  the  procession.  The  young  men  passed  in 
perfect  order,  and  without  sajang  a  word — only  lifting 
their  hats  as  they  defiled  before  the  tombs.  When  they 
arrived  at  the  Louvre  they  found  the  gates  shut,  and  the 
garden  evacuated.  The  troops  were  under  arms,  and 
formed  in  battalion. 

"  After  the  passage  of  the  procession,  the  Garden  was 
again  open  to  the  public." 

And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  day. 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY  45 

There's  nothing  serious  in  mortahty :  is  there,  from  the 
beginning  of  this  account  to  the  end  thereof,  aught  but 
sheer,  open,  monstrous,  undisguised  humbug?  I  said, 
before,  that  you  should  have  a  history  of  these  people  by 
Dickens  or  Theodore  Hook,  but  there  is  little  need  of 
professed  wags; — do  not  the  men  write  their  own  tale 
with  an  admirable  Sancho-like  gravity  and  naivete 
which  one  could  not  desire  improved?  How  good  is  that 
touch  of  sly  indignation  about  the  little  catafalques! 
how  rich  the  contrast  presented  by  the  economy  of  the 
Catholics  to  the  splendid  disregard  of  expense  exhibited 
by  the  devout  Jews !  and  how  touching  the  ''  apologetical 
discourses  on  the  Revolution,"  delivered  by  the  Protes- 
tant pastors!  Fancy  the  profound  affliction  of  the 
Gardes  Municipaux,  the  Sergens  de  Ville,  the  police 
agents  in  plain  clothes,  and  the  troops  with  fixed  bayo- 
nets, sobbing  round  the  "  expiatory  monuments  of  a 
pyramidical  shape,  surmounted  by  funeral  vases,"  and 
compelled,  by  sad  duty,  to  fire  into  the  public  who  might 
wish  to  indulge  in  the  same  woe!  O  "  manes  of  July!  " 
(the  phrase  is  pretty  and  grammatical)  why  did  you 
with  sharp  bullets  break  those  Louvre  windows?  Why 
did  you  bayonet  red-coated  Swiss  behind  that  fair  white 
facade,  and,  braving  cannon,  musket,  sabre,  perspective 
guillotine,  burst  3^onder  bronze  gates,  rush  through  that 
peaceful  picture-gallery,  and  hurl  royalty,  loyalty,  and  a 
thousand  years  of  Kings,  head-over-heels  out  of  yonder 
Tuileries'  windows? 

It  is,  you  will  allow,  a  little  difficult  to  say: — there  is, 
however,  one  benefit  that  the  country  has  gained  (as  for 
liberty  of  press,  or  person,  diminished  taxation,  a  juster 
representation,  who  ever  thinks  of  them?)  — one  benefit 
they  have  gained,  or  nearly — abolition  de  la  peine-de- 
mort  pour  delit  politique:  no  more  wicked  guillotining 


46  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

for  revolutions.  A  Frenchman  must  have  his  revolution 
— it  is  his  nature  to  knock  down  omnibuses  in  the  street, 
and  across  them  to  fire  at  troops  of  the  line— it  is  a  sin 
to  baulk  it.  Did  not  the  King  send  off  Revolutionary 
Prince  Napoleon  in  a  coach-and-f our  ?  Did  not  the  jury, 
before  the  face  of  God  and  Justice,  proclaim  Revolu- 
tionary Colonel  Vaudrey  not  guilty?— One  may  hope, 
soon,  that  if  a  man  shows  decent  courage  and  energy  in 
half-a-dozen  emeutes,  he  will  get  promotion  and  a  pre- 
mium. 

I  do  not  (although,  perhaps  partial  to  the  subject), 
want  to  talk  more  nonsense  than  the  occasion  warrants, 
and  will  pray  you  to  cast  your  eyes  over  the  following 
anecdote  that  is  now  going  the  round  of  the  papers,  and 
respects  the  commutation  of  the  punishment  of  that 
wretched,  fool-hardy  Barbes,  who,  on  his  trial,  seemed 
to  invite  the  penalty  which  has  just  been  remitted  to  him. 
You  recollect  the  braggart's  speech:  "  When  the  Indian 
falls  into  the  power  of  the  enemy,  he  knows  the  fate  that 
awaits  him,  and  submits  his  head  to  the  knife:— J  am  the 
Indian!" 

"  Well-" 

"  M.  Hugo  was  at  the  Opera  on  the  night  the  sen- 
tence of  the  Court  of  Peers,  condemning  Barbes  to 
death,  was  published.  The  great  poet  composed  the  fol- 
lowing verses: — 

'  Par  votre  ange  envolee,  ainsi  qu'une  colombe, 

Par  le  royal  enfant,  doux  et  frele  roseau, 

Grace  encore  une  f ois !    Grace  au  nom  de  la  tombe ! 

Grace  au  nom  du  ber^eau  ! '  ^ 

^  Translated  for  the  benefit  of  country  gentlemen:  — 

"  By  your  angel  flown  away  just  like  a  dove. 
By  the  royal  infant,  that  frail  and  tender  reed, 
Pardon  yet  once  more  !   Pardon  in  the  name  of  the  tomb  ! 
Pardon  in  the  name  of  the  cradle  !  " 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY  47 

"  M.  Victor  Hugo  wrote  the  lines  out  instantly  on  a 
sheet  of  paper,  which  he  folded,  and  simply  despatched 
them  to  the  King  of  the  French  by  the  penny-post. 

"  That  truly  is  a  noble  voice,  which  can  at  all  hours 
thus  speak  to  the  throne.  Poetry,  in  old  days,  was  called 
the  language  of  the  Gods— it  is  better  named  now— it 
is  the  language  of  the  Kings. 

"  But  the  clemency  of  the  King  had  anticipated  the 
letter  of  the  Poet.  His  Majesty  had  signed  the  commu- 
tation of  Barbes,  while  the  poet  was  still  writing. 

"  Louis  Philippe  replied  to  the  author  of  '  Ruy  Bias  ' 
most  graciously,  that  he  had  already  subscribed  to  a  wish 
so  noble,  and  that  the  verses  had  only  confirmed  his  pre- 
vious disposition  to  mercy." 

Now  in  countries  where  fools  most  abound,  did  one 
ever  read  of  more  monstrous,  palpable  folly?  In  any 
country,  save  this,  would  a  poet  who  chose  to  write  four 
crack-brained  verses,  comparing  an  angel  to  a  dove,  and 
a  little  boy  to  a  reed,  and  calling  upon  the  chief  magis- 
trate, in  the  name  of  the  angel,  or  dove  (the  Princess 
Mary) ,  in  her  tomb,  and  the  little  infant  in  his  cradle,  to 
spare  a  criminal,  have  received  a  "  gracious  answer  "  to 
his  nonsense?  Would  he  have  ever  despatched  the  non- 
sense? and  would  any  journalist  have  been  silly  enough 
to  talk  of  "  the  noble  voice  that  could  thus  speak  to  the 
throne,"  and  the  noble  throne  that  could  return  such  a 
noble  answer  to  the  noble  voice  ?  You  get  nothing  done 
here  gravely  and  decently.  Tawdry  stage  tricks  are 
played,  and  braggadocio  claptraps  uttered,  on  every  oc- 
casion, however  sacred  or  solemn:  in  the  face  of  death, 
as  by  Barbes  with  his  hideous  Indian  metaphor;  in  the 
teeth  of  reason,  as  by  M.  Victor  Hugo  with  his  two- 
penny-post poetry;  and  of  justice,  as  by  the  King's  ab- 


48  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

surd  reply  to  this  absurd  demand !  Suppose  the  Count 
of  Paris  to  be  twenty  times  a  reed,  and  the  Princess 
JNIary  a  host  of  angels,  is  that  any  reason  why  the  law 
should  not  have  its  course?  Justice  is  the  God  of  our 
lower  world,  our  great  omnipresent  guardian:  as  such 
it  moves,  or  should  move  on,  majestic,  awful,  irresistible, 
having  no  passions— like  a  God:  but,  in  the  very  midst 
of  the  path  across  which  it  is  to  pass,  lo!  M.  Victor 
Hugo  trips  forward,  smirking,  and  says,  O  divine  Jus- 
tice !  I  will  trouble  you  to  listen  to  the  following  trifling 
efl'usion  of  mine: — 

"  Par  voire  ange  envolee,  ainsi  qu'une,"  Sfc. 

Awful  Justice  stops,  and,  bowing  gravely,  listens  to  M. 
Hugo's  verses,  and,  with  true  French  politeness,  says, 
"  Mon  cher  Monsieur,  these  verses  are  charming,  ravis- 
sans,  delicieuoD,  and,  coming  from  such  a  celehrite  lit- 
teraire  as  yourself,  shall  meet  with  every  possible  atten- 
tion— in  fact,  had  I  required  anything  to  confirm  my  own 
previous  opinions,  this  charming  poem  would  have  done 
so.  Bon  jour,  mon  cher  Monsieur  Hugo,  au  revoir!  " 
—and  they  part:— Justice  taking  ofl*  his  hat  and  bowing, 
and  the  Author  of  "  Ruy  Bias  "  quite  convinced  that  he 
has  been  treating  with  him  cVcgal  en  egal.  I  can  hardly 
bring  my  mind  to  fancy  that  anything  is  serious  in 
France — it  seems  to  be  all  rant,  tinsel,  and  stage-play. 
Sham  liberty,  sham  monarchy,  sham  glory,  sham  justice, 
— oil  diahle  done  la  verite  va-t-elle  se  nieher? 

*  *  ^  * 

The  last  rocket  of  the  fete  of  July  has  just  mounted, 
exploded,  made  a  portentous  bang,  and  emitted  a  gor- 
geous show  of  blue-lights,  and  then  (like  many  reputa- 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY  49 

tions)  disappeared  totally:  the  hundredth  gun  on  the 
Invalid  terrace  has  uttered  its  last  roar — and  a  great 
comfort  it  is  for  eyes  and  ears  that  the  festival  is  over. 
We  shall  be  able  to  go  about  our  every-day  business 
again,  and  not  be  hustled  by  the  gendarmes  or  the 
crowd. 

The  sight  which  I  have  just  come  away  from  is  as 
brilliant,  happy,  and  beautiful  as  can  be  conceived;  and 
if  you  want  to  see  French  people  to  the  greatest  ad- 
vantage, you  should  go  to  a  festival  like  this,  where  their 
manners,  and  innocent  gaiety,  show  a  very  pleasing  con- 
trast to  the  coarse  and  vulgar  hilarity  which  the  same 
class  would  exhibit  in  our  own  country — at  Epsom  race- 
course, for  instance,  or  Greenwich  Fair.  The  greatest 
noise  that  I  heard  was  that  of  a  company  of  jolly  vil- 
lagers from  a  place  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Paris,  who, 
as  soon  as  the  fireworks  were  over,  formed  themselves 
into  a  line,  three  or  four  abreast,  and  so  marched  singing 
home.  As  for  the  fireworks,  squibs  and  crackers  are 
very  hard  to  describe,  and  very  little  was  to  be  seen  of 
them:  to  me,  the  prettiest  sight  was  the  vast,  orderly, 
happy  crowd,  the  number  of  children,  and  the  extraor- 
dinary care  and  kindness  of  the  parents  towards  these 
little  creatures.  It  does  one  good  to  see  honest,  heavy 
epiciers,  fathers  of  families,  playing  with  them  in  the 
Tuileries,  or,  as  to-night,  bearing  them  stoutly  on  their 
shoulders,  through  many  long  hours,  in  order  that  the  lit- 
tle ones,  too,  may  have  their  share  of  the  fun.  John  Bull, 
I  fear,  is  more  selfish :  he  does  not  take  Mrs.  Bull  to  the 
public-house;  but  leaves  her,  for  the  most  part,  to  take 
care  of  the  children  at  home. 

The  fete,  then,  is  over;  the  pompous  black  pyramid 
at  the  Louvre  is  only  a  skeleton  now;  all  the  flags  have 


50  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

been  miraculously  whisked  away  during  the  night,  and 
the  fine  chandeliers  which  glittered  down  the  Champs 
Elysees  for  full  half  a  mile,  have  been  consigned  to  their 
dens  and  darkness.  Will  they  ever  be  reproduced  for 
other  celebrations  of  the  glorious  29th  of  July?— I  think 
not;  the  Government  which  vowed  that  there  should  be 
no  more  persecutions  of  the  press,  was,  on  that  very 
29th,  seizing  a  Legitimist  paper,  for  some  real  or 
fancied  offence  against  it :  it  had  seized,  and  was  seizing 
daily,  numbers  of  persons  merely  suspected  of  being 
disaffected  (and  you  may  fancy  how  liberty  is  under- 
stood, when  some  of  these  prisoners,  the  other  day,  on 
coming  to  trial,  were  found  guilty  and  sentenced  to  one 
day's  imprisonment,  after  thirty -sia^  days'  detention  on 
susincion) .  I  think  the  Government  which  follows  such 
a  system,  cannot  be  very  anxious  about  any  farther  revo- 
lutionary fetes,  and  that  the  Chamber  may  reasonably 
refuse  to  vote  more  money  for  them.  Why  should  men 
be  so  mighty  proud  of  having,  on  a  certain  day,  cut  a 
certain  number  of  their  fellow-countrymen's  throats? 
The  Guards  and  the  Line  employed  this  time  nine  years 
did  no  more  than  those  who  cannonaded  the  starving 
Lyonnese,  or  bayoneted  the  luckless  inhabitants  of  the 
Rue  Transnounain:— they  did  not  fulfil  the  soldier's 
honourable  duty: — his  superiors  bid  him  kill  and  he  kill- 
eth:— perhaps,  had  he  gone  to  his  work  with  a  little 
more  heart,  the  result  would  have  been  different,  and 
then— would  the  conquering  party  have  been  justified 
in  annually  rejoicing  over  the  conquered?  Would  we 
have  thought  Charles  X.  justified  in  causing  fireworks 
to  be  blazed,  and  concerts  to  be  sung,  and  speeches  to 
be  spouted,  in  commemoration  of  his  victory  over  his' 
slaughtered  countrymen?— I  wish,  for  my  part,  they 


THE  FETES  OF  JULY  51 

would  allow  the  people  to  go  about  their  business,  as  on 
the  other  362  days  of  the  year,  and  leave  the  Champs 
Elysees  free  for  the  omnibuses  to  run,  and  the  Tuileries 
in  quiet,  so  that  the  nursemaids  might  come  as  usual,  and 
the  newspapers  be  read  for  a  halfpenny  apiece. 

Shall  I  trouble  you  with  an  account  of  the  speculations 
of  these  latter,  and  the  state  of  the  parties  which  they 
represent?  The  complication  is  not  a  little  curious,  and 
may  form,  perhaps,  a  subject  of  graver  disquisition. 
The  July  fetes  occupy,  as  you  may  imagine,  a  consid- 
erable part  of  their  columns  just  now,  and  it  is  amusing 
to  follow  them,  one  by  one ;  to  read  Tweedledum's  praise, 
and  Tweedledee's  indignation— to  read,  in  the  Dehats, 
how  the  King  was  received  with  shouts  and  loyal  vivats 
—in  the  Nation,  how  not  a  tongue  was  wagged  in  his 
praise,  but,  on  the  instant  of  his  departure,  how  the 
people  called  for  the  "  Marseillaise  "  and  applauded 
that.—^\i\  best  say  no  more  about  the  fete.  The  Legiti- 
mists were  always  indignant  at  it.  The  high  Philippist 
party  sneers  at  and  despises  it;  the  Republicans  hate  it: 
it  seems  a  joke  against  them.  Why  continue  it?— If 
there  be  anything  sacred  in  the  name  and  idea  of  loyalty, 
why  renew  this  fete?  It  only  shows  how  a  rightful 
monarch  was  hurled  from  his  throne,  and  a  dexterous 
usurper  stole  his  precious  diadem.  If  there  be  anything 
noble  in  the  memory  of  a  day,  when  citizens,  unused  to 
war,  rose  against  practised  veterans,  and,  armed  with 
the  strength  of  their  cause,  overthrew  them,  why  speak 
of  it  now  ?  or  renew  the  bitter  recollections  of  the  bootless 
struggle  and  victory?  O  Lafayette!  O  hero  of  two 
worlds !  O  accomplished  Cromwell  Grandison !  you  have 
to  answer  for  more  than  any  mortal  man  who  has  played 
a  part  in  history:  two  republics  and  one  monarchy  does 


52  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

the  world  owe  to  you;  and  especially  grateful  should 
your  country  be  to  you.  Did  you  not,  in  '90,  make  clear 
the  path  for  honest  Robespierre,  and,  in  '30,  prepare  the 
way  for — 

7|r  '^  '^'  ^  ^rf* 

[The  Editor  of  the  Bungay  Beacon  would  insert  no 
more  of  this  letter,  which  is,  therefore,  for  ever  lost  to 
the  public] 


ON  THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTINC 

WITH    APPROPRIATE    ANECDOTES,    ILLUSTRATIONS, 
AND    PHILOSOPHICAL   DISQUISITIONS 

IN    A    LETTER    TO    MR.    MACGILP,    OF    LONDON 

THE  three  collections  of  pictures  at  the  Louvre, 
the  Luxembourg,  and  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts, 
contain  a  number  of  specimens  of  French  art,  since  its 
commencement  almost,  and  give  the  stranger  a  pretty 
fair  opportunity  to  study  and  appreciate  the  school. 
The  French  list  of  painters  contains  some  very  good 
names— no  very  great  ones,  except  Poussin  (unless  the 
admirers  of  Claude  choose  to  rank  him  among  great 
painters) , — and  I  think  the  school  was  never  in  so  flour- 
ishing a  condition  as  it  is  at  the  present  day.  They  say 
there  are  three  thousand  artists  in  this  town  alone:  of 
these  a  handsome  minority  paint  not  merely  tolerably, 
but  well  understand  their  business:  draw  the  figure  ac- 
curately; sketch  with  cleverness;  and  paint  portraits, 
churches  or  restaurateurs'  shops,  in  a  decent  manner. 

To  account  for  a  superiority  over  England— which, 
I  think,  as  regards  art,  is  incontestable— it  must  be  re- 
membered that  the  painter's  trade,  in  France,  is  a  very 
good  one;  better  appreciated,  better  understood,  and, 
generally,  far  better  paid  than  with  us.  There  are  a 
dozen  excellent  schools  in  which  a  lad  may  enter  here, 
and,  under  the  eye  of  a  practised  master,  learn  the  ap- 

^3 


54  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

prenticeship  of  his  art  at  an  expense  of  about  ten 
pounds  a  year.  In  England  there  is  no  school  except  the 
Academy,  unless  the  student  can  afford  to  pay  a  very 
large  sum,  and  place  himself  under  the  tuition  of  some 
particular  artist.  Here,  a  young  man,  for  his  ten 
pounds,  has  all  sorts  of  accessory  instruction,  models, 
&c. ;  and  has  further,  and  for  nothing,  numberless  in- 
citements to  study  his  profession  which  are  not  to  be 
found  in  England: — the  streets  are  filled  with  picture- 
shops,  the  people  themselves  are  pictures  walking  about ; 
the  churches,  theatres,  eating-houses,  concert-rooms  are 
covered  with  pictures:  Nature  itself  is  inclined  more 
kindly  to  him,  for  the  sky  is  a  thousand  times  more  bright 
and  beautiful,  and  the  sun  shines  for  the  greater  part 
of  the  year.  Add  to  this,  incitements  more  selfish,  but 
quite  as  powerful:  a  French  artist  is  paid  very  hand- 
somely; for  five  hundred  a  year  is  much  where  all  are 
poor;  and  has  a  rank  in  society  rather  above  his  merits 
than  below  them,  being  caressed  by  hosts  and  hostesses 
in  places  where  titles  are  laughed  at  and  a  baron  is 
thought  of  no  more  account  than  a  banker's  clerk. 

The  life  of  the  young  artist  here  is  the  easiest,  merri- 
est, dirtiest  existence  possible.  He  comes  to  Paris,  prob- 
ably at  sixteen,  from  his  province ;  his  parents  settle  forty 
pounds  a  year  on  him,  and  pay  his  master ;  he  establishes 
himself  in  the  Pays  Latin,  or  in  the  new  quarter  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  (which  is  quite  peopled  with 
painters)  ;  he  arrives  at  his  atelier  at  a  tolerably  early 
hour,  and  labours  among  a  score  of  companions  as  merry 
and  poor  as  himself.  Each  gentleman  has  his  favourite 
tobacco-pipe;  and  the  pictures  are  painted  in  the  midst 
of  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  a  din  of  puns  and  choice 
French  slang,  and  a  roar  of  choruses,  of  which  no  one 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     55 

can  form  an  idea  who  has  not  been  present  at  such  an 
assembly. 

You  see  here  every  variety  of  coiffure  that  has  ever 
been  known.  Some  young  men  of  genius  have  ringlets 
hanging  over  their  shoulders— you  may  smell  the  tobacco 
with  which  they  are  scented  across  the  street;  some  have 
straight  locks,  black,  oily,  and  redundant;  some  have 


toupets  in  the  famous  Louis-Philippe  fashion ;  some  are 
cropped  close;  some  have  adopted  the  present  mode — 
which  he  who  would  follow  must,  in  order  to  do  so,  part 
his  hair  in  the  middle,  grease  it  with  grease,  and  gum  it 
with  gum,  and  iron  it  flat  down  over  his  ears;  when 
arrived  at  the  ears,  you  take  the  tongs  and  make  a  couple 
of  ranges  of  curls  close  round  the  whole  head, — such 
curls  as  you  may  see  under  a  gilt  three-cornered  hat,  and 
in  her  Britannic  Majesty's  coachman's  state  wig. 

This  is  the  last  fashion.  As  for  the  beards,  there  is  no 
end  to  them ;  all  my  friends  the  artists  have  beards  who 
can  raise  them ;  and  Nature,  though  she  has  rather  stinted 


56  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

the  bodies  and  limbs  of  the  French  nation,  has  been  very 
hberal  to  them  of  hair,  as  you  may  see  by  the  following 
specimen.  Fancy  these  heads  and  beards  under  all  sorts 
of  caps — Chinese  caps,  JMandarin  caps,  Greek  skull- 
caps, English  jockey-caps,  Russian  or  Kuzzilbash  caps, 
Middle-age  caps  (such  as  are  called,  in  heraldry,  caps  of 
maintenance),  Spanish  nets,  and  striped  worsted  night- 
caps. Fancy  all  the  jackets  you  have  ever  seen,  and  you 
have  before  you,  as  well  as  pen  can  describe,  the  costumes 
of  these  indescribable  Frenchmen. 

In  this  company  and  costume  the  French  student  of 
art  passes  his  days  and  acquires  knowledge;  how  he 
passes  his  evenings,  at  what  theatres,  at  what  guinguettes, 
in  company  with  what  seducing  little  milliner,  there  is 
no  need  to  say;  but  I  knew  one  who  pawned  his  coat  to 
go  to  a  carnival  ball,  and  walked  abroad  very  cheerfully 
in  his  blouse  for  six  weeks,  until  he  could  redeem  the 
absent  garment. 

These  young  men  (together  with  the  students  of  sci- 
ences) comport  themselves  towards  the  sober  citizen 
pretty  much  as  the  German  bursch  towards  the  philister, 
or  as  the  military  man,  during  the  empire,  did  to  the 
pekin:— from  the  height  of  their  poverty  they  look  down 
vipon  him  with  the  greatest  imaginable  scorn— a  scorn, 
I  think,  by  which  the  citizen  seems  dazzled,  for  his  re- 
spect for  the  arts  is  intense.  The  case  is  very  different 
in  England,  where  a  grocer's  daughter  would  think  she 
made  a  mesalliance  by  marrying  a  painter,  and  where  a 
literary  man  (in  spite  of  all  we  can  say  against  it)  ranks 
below  that  class  of  gentry  composed  of  the  apothecary, 
the  attorney,  the  wine-merchant,  whose  positions,  in 
country  towns  at  least,  are  so  equivocal.  As  for  instance, 
my  friend  the  Rev.  James  Asterisk,  who  has  an  unde- 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING    57 

niable  pedigree,  a  paternal  estate,  and  a  living  to  boot, 
once  dined  in  Warwickshire,  in  company  with  several 
squires  and  parsons  of  that  enlightened  county.  Aster- 
isk, as  usual,  made  himself  extraordinarily  agreeable  at 
dinner,  and  delighted  all  present  with  his  learning  and 
wit.  "  Who  is  that  monstrous  pleasant  fellow?  "  said 
one  of  the  squires.  "Don't  you  know?"  replied  an- 
other. "  It's  Asterisk,  the  author  of  so-and-so,  and  a 
famous  contributor  to  such-and-such  a  magazine." 
"  Good  heavens!  "  said  the  squire,  quite  horrified;  "  a  lit- 
erary man!    I  thought  he  had  been  a  gentleman!  " 

Another  instance:  M.  Guizot,  w^ien  he  was  Minister 
here,  had  the  grand  hotel  of  the  IMinistry,  and  gave  en- 
tertainments to  all  the  great  de  yar  le  rnonde,  as  Bran- 
tome  says,  and  entertained  them  in  a  proper  ministerial 
magnificence.  The  splendid  and  beautiful  Duchess  of 
Dash  was  at  one  of  his  ministerial  parties;  and  went,  a 
fortnight  afterwards,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  pay  her  re- 
spects to  ]\I.  Guizot.  But  it  happened,  in  this  fortnight, 
that  M.  Guizot  was  Minister  no  longer;  having  given 
up  his  portfolio,  and  his  grand  hotel,  to  retire  into  private 
life,  and  to  occupy  his  humble  apartments  in  the  house 
w^hich  he  possesses,  and  of  which  he  lets  the  greater 
portion.  A  friend  of  mine  was  present  at  one  of  the  ex- 
Minister's  soirees,  where  the  Duchess  of  Dash  made  her 
appearance.  He  says  the  Duchess,  at  her  entrance, 
seemed  quite  astounded,  and  examined  the  premises  with 
a  most  curious  wonder.  Two  or  three  shabby  little 
rooms,  with  ordinary  furniture,  and  a  Minister  en  re- 
traite,  who  lives  by  letting  lodgings!  In  our  country 
was  ever  such  a  thing  heard  of?  No,  thank  heaven! 
and  a  Briton  ought  to  be  proud  of  the  difference. 

But  to  our  muttons.    This  country  is  surely  the  para- 


58  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

dise  of  painters  and  penny-a-liners;  and  when  one  reads 
of  M.  Horace  Vernet  at  Rome,  exceeding  ambassadors 
at  Rome  by  his  magnificence,  and  leading  such  a  life  as 
Rubens  or  Titian  did  of  old ;  when  one  sees  M.  Thiers's 
grand  villa  in  the  Rue  St.  George  (a  dozen  years  ago  he 
was  not  even  a  penny-a-liner:  no  such  luck)  ;  when  one 
contemplates,  in  imagination,  M.  Gudin,  the  marine 
painter,  too  lame  to  walk  through  the  picture-gallery 
of  the  Louvre,  accommodated,  therefore,  with  a  wheel- 
chair, a  privilege  of  princes  only,  and  accompanied 
— nay,  for  what  I  know,  actually  trundled— down 
the  gallery  by  majesty  itself — who  does  not  long  to 
make  one  of  the  great  nation,  exchange  his  native 
tongue  for  the  melodious  jabber  of  France;  or  at  least, 
adopt  it  for  his  native  country,  like  Marshal  Saxe,  Na- 
poleon, and  Anacharsis  Clootz?  Noble  people!  they 
made  Tom  Paine  a  deputy;  and  as  for  Tom  Macaulay, 
they  would  make  a  dynasty  of  him. 

Well,  this  being  the  case,  no  wonder  there  are  so  many 
painters  in  France;  and  here,  at  least,  we  are  back  to 
them.  At  the  Ecole  Royale  des  Beaux  Arts,  you  see 
two  or  three  hundred  specimens  of  their  performances; 
all  the  prize-men,  since  1750,  I  think,  being  bound  to 
leave  their  prize  sketch  or  picture.  Can  anything  good 
come  out  of  the  Royal  Academy?  is  a  question  which 
has  been  considerably  mooted  in  England  (in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Suffolk  Street  especially).  The  hundi'eds 
of  French  samples  are,  I  think,  not  very  satisfactory. 
The  subjects  are  almost  all  what  are  called  classical: 
Orestes  pursued  by  every  variety  of  Furies ;  numbers  of 
little  wolf-sucking  Romuluses;  Hectors  and  Androm- 
aches  in  a  complication  of  parting  embraces,  and  so 
forth;  for  it  was  the  absurd  maxim  of  our  forefathers, 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     59 

that  because  these  subjects  had  been  the  fashion  twenty 
centuries  ago,  they  must  remain  so  in  scecula  sceculorum; 
because  to  these  lofty  heights  giants  had  scaled,  behold 
the  race  of  pigmies  must  get  upon  stilts  and  jump  at 
them  likewise !  and  on  the  canvas,  and  in  the  theatre,  the 
French  frogs  (excuse  the  pleasantry)  were  instructed 
to  swell  out  and  roar  as  much  as  possible  like  bulls. 

What  was  the  consequence,  my  dear  friend?  In  try- 
ing to  make  themselves  into  bulls,  the  frogs  make  them- 
selves into  jackasses,  as  might  be  expected.  For  a  hun- 
dred and  ten  years  the  classical  humbug  oppressed  the 
nation;  and  you  may  see,  in  this  gallery  of  the  Beaux 
Arts,  seventy  years'  specimens  of  the  dulness  which  it 
engendered. 

Now,  as  Nature  made  every  man  with  a  nose  and  eyes 
of  his  own,  she  gave  him  a  character  of  his  own  too ;  and 
yet  we,  O  foolish  race!  must  try  our  verj^  best  to  ape 
some  one  or  two  of  our  neighbours,  whose  ideas  fit  us 
no  more  than  their  breeches !  It  is  the  study  of  nature, 
surely,  that  profits  us,  and  not  of  these  imitations  of  her. 
A  man,  as  a  man,  from  a  dustman  up  to  ^schylus,  is 
God's  work,  and  good  to  read,  as  all  works  of  Nature 
are :  but  the  silly  animal  is  never  content ;  is  ever  trying  to 
fit  itself  into  another  shape ;  wants  to  deny  its  own  iden- 
tity, and  has  not  the  courage  to  utter  its  own  thoughts. 
Because  Lord  Byron  was  wicked,  and  quarrelled  with 
the  world;  and  found  himself  growing  fat,  and  quar- 
relled with  his  victuals,  and  thus,  naturally,  grew  ill- 
humoured,  did  not  half  Europe  grow  ill-humoured  too? 
Did  not  every  poet  feel  his  young  affections  withered, 
and  despair  and  darkness  cast  upon  his  soul?  Because 
certain  mighty  men  of  old  could  make  heroical  statues 
and  plays,  must  we  not  be  told  that  there  is  no  other 


60  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

beauty  but  classical  beauty?— must  not  every  little  whip- 
ster of  a  French  poet  chalk  you  out  plays,  "  Henriades," 
and  such-like,  and  vow  that  here  was  the  real  thing,  the 
undeniable  Kalon? 

The  undeniable  fiddlestick !  For  a  hundred  years,  my 
dear  sir,  the  world  was  humbugged  by  the  so-called  classi- 
cal artists,  as  they  now  are  by  what  is  called  the  Christian 
art  (of  which  anon)  ;  and  it  is  curious  to  look  at  the  pic- 
torial traditions  as  here  handed  down.  The  consequence 
of  them  is,  that  scarce  one  of  the  classical  pictures  ex- 
hibited is  worth  much  more  than  two-and-sixpence.  Bor- 
rowed from  statuary,  in  the  first  place,  the  colour  of  the 
paintings  seems,  as  much  as  possible,  to  participate  in 
it;  they  are  mostly  of  a  misty,  stony  green,  dismal  hue, 
as  if  they  had  been  painted  in  a  world  where  no  colour 
was.  In  every  picture  there  are,  of  course,  white  man- 
tles, white  urns,  white  columns,  white  statues — those 
oblige  accomplishments  of  the  sublime.  There  are  the 
endless  straight  noses,  long  eyes,  round  chins,  short  upper 
lips,  just  as  they  are  ruled  down  for  you  in  the  drawing- 
books,  as  if  the  latter  were  the  revelations  of  beauty, 
issued  by  supreme  authority,  from  which  there  was  no 
appeal?  Why  is  the  classical  reign  to  endure?  Why 
is  yonder  simpering  Venus  de'  Medicis  to  be  our  stan- 
dard of  beauty,  or  the  Greek  tragedies  to  bound  our 
notions  of  the  sublime?  There  was  no  reason  why  Aga- 
memnon should  set  the  fashions,  and  remain  dva|  avSpcav 
to  eternity :  and  there  is  a  classical  quotation,  which  you 
may  have  occasionally  heard,  beginning  Vixere  fortes, 
&c.,  which,  as  it  avers  that  there  were  a  great  number  of 
stout  fellows  before  Agamenmon,  may  not  unreasonably 
induce  us  to  conclude  that  similar  heroes  were  to  succeed 
him.   Shakspeare  made  a  better  man  when  his  imagina- 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     61 

tion  moulded  the  mighty  figure  of  Macbeth.  And  if  you 
will  measure  Satan  by  Prometheus,  the  blind  old  Puri- 
tan's work  by  that  of  the  fiery  Grecian  poet,  does  not 
JNIilton's  angel  surpass  ^schylus's— surpass  him  by 
"  many  a  rood?  " 

In  the  same  school  of  the  Beaux  Arts,  where  are  to  be 
found  such  a  number  of  pale  imitations  of  the  antique. 
Monsieur  Thiers  (and  he  ought  to  be  thanked  for  it) 
has  caused  to  be  placed  a  full-sized  copy  of  "  The  Last 
Judgment  "  of  ]\Iichel  Angelo,  and  a  number  of  casts 
from  statues  by  the  same  splendid  hand.  There  is  the 
sublime,  if  you  please — a  new  sublime — an  original  sub- 
lime— quite  as  sublime  as  the  Greek  sublime.  See  yon- 
der, in  the  midst  of  his  angels,  the  Judge  of  the  world 
descending  in  glory ;  and  near  him,  beautiful  and  gentle, 
and  yet  indescribably  august  and  pure,  the  Virgin  by  his 
side.  There  is  the  "  Moses,"  the  grandest  figure  that 
ever  was  carved  in  stone.  It  has  about  it  something 
frightfully  majestic,  if  one  may  so  speak.  In  examin- 
ing this,  and  the  astonishing  picture  of  "  The  Judg- 
ment," or  even  a  single  figure  of  it,  the  spectator's  sense 
amounts  almost  to  pain.  I  would  not  like  to  be  left  in 
a  room  alone  with  the  "  Moses."  How  did  the  artist  live 
amongst  them,  and  create  them  ?  How  did  he  suffer  the 
painful  labour  of  invention  ?  One  fancies  that  he  would 
have  been  scorched  up,  like  Semele,  by  sights  too  tre- 
mendous for  his  vision  to  bear.  One  cannot  imagine 
him,  with  our  small  physical  endowments  and  weak- 
nesses, a  man  like  ourselves. 

As  for  the  Ecole  Roy  ale  des  Beaux  Arts,  then,  and  all 
the  good  its  students  have  done,  as  students,  it  is  stark 
naught.  When  the  men  did  anything,  it  was  after  they 
had  left  the  academy,  and  began  thinking  for  themselves. 


62  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

There  is  only  one  picture  among  the  many  hundreds 
that  has,  to  my  idea,  much  merit  (a  charming  composi- 
tion of  Homer  singing,  signed  Jourdy)  ;  and  the  only 
good  that  the  academy  has  done  by  its  pupils  was  to  send 
them  to  Rome,  where  they  might  learn  better  things.  At 
home,  the  intolerable,  stupid  classicalities,  taught  by  men 
who,  belonging  to  the  least  erudite  country  in  Europe, 
were  themselves,  from  their  profession,  the  least  learned 
among  their  countrymen,  only  weighed  the  pupils  down, 
and  cramped  their  hands,  their  eyes,  and  their  imagina- 
tions; drove  them  away  from  natural  beauty,  which, 
thank  God,  is  fresh  and  attainable  by  us  all,  to-day,  and 
yesterday,  and  to-morrow ;  and  sent  them  rambling  after 
artificial  grace,  without  the  proper  means  of  judging  or 
attaining  it. 

A  word  for  the  building  of  the  Palais  des  Beaux  Arts. 
It  is  beautiful,  and  as  well  finished  and  convenient  as 
beautiful.  With  its  light  and  elegant  fabric,  its  pretty 
fountain,  its  archway  of  the  Kenaissance,  and  fragments 
of  sculpture,  you  can  hardly  see,  on  a  fine  day,  a  place 
more  riant  and  pleasing. 

Passing  from  thence  up  the  picturesque  Rue  de  Seine, 
let  us  walk  to  the  Luxembourg,  where  bonnes,  students, 
grisettes,  and  old  gentlemen  with  pigtails,  love  to  wander 
in  the  melancholy,  quaint  old  gardens;  where  the  peers 
have  a  new  and  comfortable  court  of  justice,  to  judge  all 
the  emeutes  which  are  to  take  place ;  and  where,  as  every- 
body knows,  is  the  picture-gallery  of  modern  French 
artists,  whom  government  thinks  worthy  of  patronage. 

A  very  great  proportion  of  the  pictures,  as  we  see  by 
the  catalogue,  are  by  the  students  whose  works  we  have 
just  been  to  visit  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  and  who,  having 
performed  their  pilgrimage  to  Rome,  have  taken  rank 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     63 

among  the  professors  of  the  art.  I  don't  know  a  more 
pleasing  exhibition ;  for  there  are  not  a  dozen  really  bad 
pictures  in  the  collection,  some  very  good,  and  the  rest 
showing  great  skill  and  smartness  of  execution. 

In  the  same  way,  however,  that  it  has  been  supposed 
that  no  man  could  be  a  great  poet  unless  he  wrote  a  very 
big  poem,  the  tradition  is  kept  up  among  the  painters, 
and  we  have  here  a  vast  number  of  large  canvases,  with 
figures  of  the  proper  heroical  length  and  nakedness. 
The  anticlassicists  did  not  arise  in  France  until  about 
1827;  and,  in  consequence,  up  to  that  period,  we  have 
here  the  old  classical  faith  in  full  vigour.  There  is  Bru- 
tus, having  chopped  his  son's  head  off,  with  all  the  agony 
of  a  father,  and  then,  calling  for  number  two;  there  is 
^neas  carrying  off  old  Anchises;  there  are  Paris  and 
Venus,  as  naked  as  two  Hottentots,  and  many  more  such 
choice  subjects  from  Lempriere. 

But  the  chief  specimens  of  the  sublime  are  in  the  way 
of  murders,  with  which  the  catalogue  swarms.  Here  are 
a  few  extracts  from  it: — 

7.  Beaume,  Chevalier  de  la  Legion  d'Honneur,     "  The  Grand 
Dauphiness  Dying." 

18.  Blondcl,  Chevalier  dc  la.  Sic.     "  Zenobia  found  Dead." 
36.   Debay,  Chevalier.    "  The  Death  of  Lucretia." 

38.  Dejuinne.     ''  The  Death  of  Hector." 

34.   Court,  Chevalier  de  la,  &c.     "  The  Death  of  Cssar." 

39,  40,  41.  Delacroix,  Chevalier.  "Dante  and  Virgil  in  the 
Infernal  Lake,"  "  The  Massacre  of  Scio,"  and  "  Medea  going  to 
Murder  her  Children." 

43.  Delaroche,  Chevalier.  "  Joas  taken  from  among  the 
Dead." 

44.  "  The  Death  of  Queen  Elizabeth." 

45.  "  Edward  V.  and  his  Brother  "  (preparing  for  death). 


64  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

50.  "  Hecuba  going  to  be  Sacrificed."    Drolling,  Chevalier. 

51.  Dubois.     "  Young  Clovis  found  Dead." 

56.  Henry,  Chevalier.     "  The  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew." 

75.  Guerin,  Chevalier.     "  Cain,  after  the  Death  of  Abel." 

83.  Jacquand.     "  Death  of  Adelaide  de  Comminges." 

88.  "  The  Death  of  Eudamidas." 

93.  "  The  Death  of  Hjmetto." 

103.  "  The  Death  of  Philip  of  Austria."-And  so  on. 

You  see  what  woeful  subjects  they  take,  and  how  pro- 
fusely they  are  decorated  with  knighthood.  They  are 
like  the  Black  Brunswickers,  these  painters,  and  ought 
to  be  called  Chevaliers  de  la  Mort.  I  don't  know  why 
the  merriest  people  in  the  world  should  please  them- 
selves with  such  grim  representations  and  varieties  of 
murder,  or  why  murder  itself  should  be  considered  so 
eminently  sublime  and  poetical.  It  is  good  at  the  end  of 
a  tragedy;  but,  then,  it  is  good  because  it  is  the  end, 
and  because,  by  the  events  foregone,  the  mind  is  pre- 
pared for  it.  But  these  men  will  have  nothing  but  fifth 
acts ;  and  seem  to  skip,  as  unworthy,  all  the  circumstances 
leading  to  them.  This,  however,  is  part  of  the  scheme 
—the  bloated,  unnatural,  stilted,  spouting,  sham  sub- 
lime, that  our  teachers  have  believed  and  tried  to  pass  off 
as  real,  and  which  your  humble  servant  and  other  anti- 
humbuggists  should  heartily,  according  to  the  strength 
that  is  in  them,  endeavour  to  pull  down.  What,  for  in- 
stance, could  Monsieur  Lafond  care  about  the  death 
of  Eudamidas?  What  was  Hecuba  to  Chevalier  Droll- 
ing, or  Chevalier  Drolling  to  Hecuba?  I  would  lay  a 
wager  that  neither  of  them  ever  conjugated  totttw,  and 
that  their  school  learning  carried  them  not  as  far  as  the 
letter,  but  only  to  the  game  of  taw.  How  were  they  to 
be  inspired  by  such  subjects?    From  having  seen  Talma 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  FAINTING     65 

and  Mademoiselle  Georges  flaunting  in  sham  Greek 
costumes,  and  having  read  up  the  articles  Eudamidas, 
Hecuba,  in  the  "  Mythological  Dictionary."  What  a 
classicism,  inspired  by  rouge,  gas-lamps,  and  a  few  lines 
in  Lempriere,  and  copied,  half  from  ancient  statues, 
and  half  from  a  naked  guardsman  at  one  shilling  and 
sixpence  the  hour! 

Delacroix  is  a  man  of  a  very  different  genius,  and  his 
"  Medea  "  is  a  genuine  creation  of  a  noble  fancy.  For 
most  of  the  others,  Mrs.  Brownrigg,  and  her  two  female 
'prentices,  would  have  done  as  well  as  the  desperate  Col- 
chian  with  her  xexva  cptXraxa.  M.  Delacroix  has  pro- 
duced a  number  of  rude,  barbarous  pictures ;  but  there  is 
the  stamp  of  genius  on  all  of  them,— the  great  poetical 
intention,  which  is  worth  all  your  execution.  Delaroche 
is  another  man  of  high  merit ;  with  not  such  a  great  heart, 
perhaps,  as  the  other,  but  a  fine  and  careful  draughts- 
man, and  an  excellent  arranger  of  his  subject.  "  The 
Death  of  Elizabeth  "  is  a  raw  young  performance  seem- 
ingly—not, at  least,  to  my  taste.  The  "  Enfans 
d'Edouard  "  is  renowned  over  Europe,  and  has  appeared 
in  a  hundred  different  ways  in  print.  It  is  properly 
pathetic  and  gloomy,  and  merits  fully  its  high  reputa- 
tion. This  painter  rejoices  in  such  subjects — in  what 
Lord  Portsmouth  used  to  call  "  black  jobs."  He  has 
killed  Charles  I.  and  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  the  Dukes 
of  Guise,  and  I  don't  know  whom  besides.  He  is,  at 
present,  occupied  with  a  vast  work  at  the  Beaux  Arts, 
where  the  writer  of  this  had  the  honour  of  seeing  him, 
— a  little,  keen-looking  man,  some  five  feet  in  height. 
He  wore,  on  this  important  occasion,  a  bandanna  round 
his  head,  and  was  in  the  act  of  smoking  a  cigar, 

Horace  Vernet,  whose  beautiful  daughter  Delaroche 


66  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

married,  is  the  king  of  French  battle-painters— an  amaz- 
ingly rapid  and  dexterous  draughtsman,  who  has  Napo- 
leon and  all  the  campaigns  by  heart,  and  has  painted  the 
Grenadier  Fran9ais  under  all  sorts  of  attitudes.  His 
pictures  on  such  subjects  are  spirited,  natural,  and  ex- 
cellent ;  and  he  is  so  clever  a  man,  that  all  he  does  is  good 
to  a  certain  degree.  His  "  Judith  "  is  somewhat  violent, 
perhaps.  His  "  Rebecca  "  most  pleasing;  and  not  the  less 
so  for  a  little  pretty  affectation  of  attitude  and  needless 
singularity  of  costume.  "  Raphael  and  Michael  An- 
gelo  "  is  as  clever  a  picture  as  can  be — clever  is  just  the 
word — the  groups  and  drawing  excellent,  the  colouring 
pleasantly  bright  and  gaudy;  and  the  French  students 
study  it  incessantly;  there  are  a  dozen  who  copy  it  for 
one  who  copies  Delacroix.  His  little  scraps  of  wood- 
cuts, in  the  now  publishing  "  Life  of  Napoleon,"  are 
perfect  gems  in  their  way,  and  the  noble  price  paid  for 
them  not  a  penny  more  than  he  merits. 

The  picture,  by  Court,  of  "  The  Death  of  Csesar,"  is 
remarkable  for  effect  and  excellent  workmanship;  and 
the  head  of  Brutus  (who  looks  like  Armand  Carrel)  is 
full  of  energy.  There  are  some  beautiful  heads  of 
women,  and  some  very  good  colour  in  the  picture.  Jac- 
quand's  "  Death  of  Adelaide  de  Comminges  "  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  beautiful.  Adelaide  had,  it  appears, 
a  lover,  who  betook  himself  to  a  convent  of  Trappists. 
She  followed  him  thither,  disguised  as  a  man,  took  the 
vows,  and  was  not  discovered  bv  him  till  on  her  death- 
bed.  The  painter  has  told  this  story  in  a  most  pleasing 
and  affecting  manner:  the  picture  is  full  of  onction  and 
melancholy  grace.  The  objects,  too,  are  capitally  rep- 
resented ;  and  the  tone  and  colour  very  good.  Decaisne's 
"  Guardian  Angel  "  is  not  so  good  in  colour,  but  is 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     67 

equally  beautiful  in  expression  and  grace.  A  little  child 
and  a  nurse  are  asleep:  an  angel  watches  the  infant. 
You  see  women  look  very  wistfully  at  this  sweet  picture ; 
and  what  triumph  would  a  painter  have  more? 

We  must  not  quit  the  Luxembourg  without  noticing 
the  dashing  sea-pieces  of  Gudin,  and  one  or  two  land- 
scapes by  Giroux  (the  plain  of  Grasivaudan) ,  and  "  The 
Prometheus  "  of  Aligny.  This  is  an  imitation,  perhaps; 
as  is  a  noble  picture  of  "  Jesus  Christ  and  the  Children," 
by  Flandrin :  but  the  artists  are  imitating  better  models, 
at  any  rate;  and  one  begins  to  perceive  that  the  odious 
classical  dynasty  is  no  more.  Poussin's  magnificent 
"  Polyphemus  "  (I  only  know  a  print  of  that  marvel- 
lous composition)  has,  perhaps,  suggested  the  first- 
named  ]3icture ;  and  the  latter  has  been  inspired  by  a  good 
enthusiastic  study  of  the  Roman  schools. 

Of  this  revolution,  Monsieur  Ingres  has  been  one  of 
the  chief  instruments.  He  was,  before  Horace  Vernet, 
president  of  the  French  Academy  at  Rome,  and  is  fa- 
mous as  a  chief  of  a  school.  When  he  broke  up  his  atelier 
here,  to  set  out  for  his  presidency,  many  of  his  pupils  at- 
tended him  faithfully  some  way  on  his  journey;  and 
some,  with  scarcely  a  penny  in  their  pouches,  walked 
through  France,  and  across  the  Alps,  in  a  pious  pil- 
grimage to  Rome,  being  determined  not  to  forsake  their 
old  master.  Such  an  action  was  worthy  of  them,  and 
of  the  high  rank  which  their  profession  holds  in  France, 
where  the  honours  to  be  acquired  by  art  are  only  in- 
ferior to  those  which  are  gained  in  war.  One  reads  of 
such  peregrinations  in  old  days,  when  the  scholars  of 
some  great  Italian  painter  followed  him  from  Venice  to 
Rome,  or  from  Florence  to  Ferrara.  In  regard  of 
Ingres'  individual  merit  as  a  painter,  the  writer  of  this  is 


68  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

not  a  fair  judge,  having  seen  but  three  pictures  by  him; 
one  being  a  jjlafond  in  the  Louvre,  which  his  disciples 
much  admire. 

Ingres  stands  between  the  Imperio-Davido-classical 
school  of  French  art,  and  the  namby-pamby  mystical 
German  school,  which  is  for  carrying  us  back  to  Cranach 
and  Diirer,  and  which  is  making  progress  here. 

For  everything  here  finds  imitation:  the  French  have 
the  genius  of  imitation  and  caricature.  This  absurd 
humbug,  called  the  Christian  or  Catholic  art,  is  sure  to 
tickle  our  neighbours,  and  will  be  a  favourite  with  them, 
when  better  known.  My  dear  MacGilp,  I  do  believe 
this  to  be  a  greater  humbug  than  the  humbug  of 
David  and  Girodet,  inasmuch  as  the  latter  was  founded 
on  Nature  at  least;  whereas  the  former  is  made  up 
of  silly  affectations,  and  improvements  upon  Nature. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  Chevalier  Ziegler's  picture  of 
"  St.  Luke  painting  the  Virgin."  St.  Luke  has  a  monk's 
dress  on,  embroidered,  however,  smartly  round  the 
sleeves.  The  Virgin  sits  in  an  immense  yellow-ochre 
halo,  with  her  son  in  her  arms.  She  looks  preternaturally 
solemn ;  as  does  St.  Luke,  who  is  eyeing  his  paint-brush 
with  an  intense  ominous  mystical  look.  They  call  this 
Catholic  art.  There  is  nothing,  my  dear  friend,  more 
easy  in  life.  First,  take  your  colours,  and  rub  them 
down  clean,— bright  carmine,  bright  yellow,  bright  si- 
enna, bright  ultramarine,  bright  green.  Make  the  cos- 
tumes of  your  figures  as  much  as  possible  like  the  cos- 
tumes of  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Paint 
them  in  with  the  above  colours ;  and  if  on  a  gold  ground, 
the  more  "  Catholic  "  your  art  is.  Dress  your  apostles 
like  priests  before  the  altar;  and  remember  to  have  a 
good  commodity  of  crosiers,  censers,  and  other  such  gim- 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     69 

cracks,  as  you  may  see  in  the  Catholic  chapels,  in  Sut- 
ton Street  and  elsewhere.  Deal  in  Virgins,  and  dress 
them  like  a  burgomaster's  wife  by  Cranach  or  Van  Eyck. 
Give  them  all  long  twisted  tails  to  their  gowns,  and 
proper  angular  draperies.  Place  all  their  heads  on  one 
side,  with  the  eyes  shut,  and  the  proper  solemn  simper. 
At  the  back  of  the  head,  draw,  and  gild  with  gold-leaf,  a 
halo,  or  glory,  of  the  exact  shape  of  a  cart-wheel;  and 
you  have  the  thing  done.  It  is  Catholic  art  tout  crache, 
as  Louis  Philippe  says.  We  have  it  still  in  England, 
handed  down  to  us  for  four  centuries,  in  the  pictures 
on  the  cards,  as  the  redoubtable  king  and  queen  of  clubs. 
Look  at  them:  you  will  see  that  the  costumes  and  atti- 
tudes  are  precisely  similar  to  those  which  figure  in  the 
catholicities  of  the  school  of  Overbeck  and  Cornelius. 

Before  you  take  your  cane  at  the  door,  look  for  one 
instant  at  the  statue-room.  Yonder  is  Jouffley's  "  Jeune 
Fille  confiant  son  premier  secret  a  Venus."  Charming, 
charming!  It  is  from  the  exhibition  of  this  year  only; 
and,  I  think,  the  best  sculpture  in  the  gallery — pretty, 
fanciful,  naive;  admirable  in  workmanship  and  imitation 
of  Nature.  I  have  seldom  seen  flesh  better  represented 
in  marble.  Examine,  also,  Jaley's  "  Pudeur,"  Jacquot's 
"  Nymph,"  and  Rude's  "  Boy  with  the  Tortoise."  These 
are  not  very  exalted  subjects,  or  what  are  called  exalted, 
and  do  not  go  beyond  simple,  smiling  beauty  and  nature. 
But  what  then?  Are  we  gods,  Miltons,  Michel  Angelos, 
that  can  leave  earth  when  we  please,  and  soar  to  heights 
immeasurable?  No,  my  dear  MacGilp;  but  the  fools 
of  academicians  would  fain  make  us  so.  Are  vou  not, 
and  half  the  painters  in  London,  panting  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  show  your  genius  in  a  great  "  historical  pic- 
ture ?  "    O  blind  race !    Have  you  wings  ?    Not  a  feather : 


70  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

and  yet  you  must  be  ever  puffing,  sweating  up  to  the  tops 
of  rugged  hills ;  and,  arrived  there,  clapping  and  shaking 
your  ragged  elbows,  and  making  as  if  you  would  fly! 
Come  down,  silly  Daedalus:  come  down  to  the  lowly 
places  in  which  Nature  ordered  you  to  walk.  The  sweet 
flowers  are  springing  there ;  the  fat  muttons  are  waiting 
there ;  the  pleasant  sun  shines  there ;  be  content  and  hum- 
ble, and  take  your  share  of  the  good  cheer. 

While  we  have  been  indulging  in  this  discussion,  the 
omnibus  has  gaily  conducted  us  across  the  water;  and 
le  garde  qui  veille  a  la  porte  du  Louvre  ne  defend  pas 
our  entry. 

What  a  paradise  this  gallery  is  for  French  students, 
or  foreigners  who  sojourn  in  the  capital!  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  say  that  the  brethren  of  the  brush  are  not 
usually  supplied  by  Fortune  with  any  extraordinary 
wealth,  or  means  of  enjoying  the  luxuries  with  which 
Paris,  more  than  any  other  city,  abounds.  But  here  they 
have  a  luxury  which  surpasses  all  others,  and  spend  their 
days  in  a  palace  which  all  the  money  of  all  the  Roths- 
childs could  not  buy.  They  sleep,  perhaps,  in  a  garret, 
and  dine  in  a  cellar ;  but  no  grandee  in  Europe  has  such 
a  drawing-room.  Kings'  houses  have,  at  best,  but 
damask  hangings,  and  gilt  cornices.  What  are  these  to 
a  wall  covered  with  canvas  by  Paul  Veronese,  or  a 
hundred  yards  of  Rubens?  Artists  from  England,  who 
have  a  national  gallery  that  resembles  a  moderate-sized 
gin-shop,  who  may  not  copy  pictures,  except  under  par- 
ticular restrictions,  and  on  rare  and  particular  days,  may 
revel  here  to  their  hearts'  content.  Here  is  a  room  half 
a  mile  long,  with  as  many  windows  as  Aladdin's  palace, 
open  from  sunrise  till  evening,  and  free  to  all  manners 
and  all  varieties  of  study :  the  only  puzzle  to  the  student 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     71 

is  to  select  the  one  he  shall  begin  upon,  and  keep  his  eyes 
away  from  the  rest. 

Fontaine's  grand  staircase,  with  its  arches,  and  painted 
ceilings  and  shining  Doric  columns,  leads  directly  to 
the  gallery ;  but  it  is  thought  too  fine  for  working  days, 
and  is  only  opened  for  the  public  entrance  on  Sabbath. 
A  little  back  stair  (leading  from  a  court,  in  which  stand 
numerous  bas-reliefs,  and  a  solemn  sphinx,  of  polished 
granite,)  is  the  common  entry  for  students  and  others, 
who,  during  the  week,  enter  the  gallery. 

Hither  have  lately  been  transported  a  number  of  the 
works  of  French  artists,  which  formerly  covered  the 
walls  of  the  Luxembourg  (death  only  entitles  the  French 
painter  to  a  place  in  the  Louvre)  ;  and  let  us  confine  our- 
selves to  the  Frenchmen  only,  for  the  space  of  this  letter. 

I  have  seen,  in  a  fine  private  collection  at  St.  Germain, 
one  or  two  admirable  single  figures  of  David,  full  of 
life,  truth,  and  gaiety.  The  colour  is  not  good,  but  all 
the  rest  excellent ;  and  one  of  these  so  much-lauded  pic- 
tures is  the  portrait  of  a  washerwoman.  "  Pope  Pius," 
at  the  Louvre,  is  as  bad  in  colour  as  remarkable  for  its 
vigour  and  look  of  life.  The  man  had  a  genius  for  paint- 
ing portraits  and  common  life,  but  must  attempt  the 
heroic; — failed  signally;  and  what  is  worse,  carried  a 
whole  nation  blundering  after  him.  Had  you  told  a 
Frenchman  so,  twenty  years  ago,  he  would  have  thrown 
the  dementi  in  your  teeth;  or,  at  least,  laughed  at  you 
in  scornful  incredulity.  They  say  of  us  that  we  don't 
know  when  we  are  beaten:  they  go  a  step  further,  and 
swear  their  defeats  are  victories.  David  was  a  part  of 
the  glory  of  the  empire ;  and  one  might  as  well  have  said 
then  that  "  Romulus  "  was  a  bad  picture,  as  that  Tou- 
louse was  a  lost  battle.     Old-fashioned  people,  who  be- 


72  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

lieve  in  the  Emperor,  believe  in  the  Theatre  Fran^ais, 
and  beheve  that  Ducis  improved  upon  Shakspeare,  have 
the  above  opinion.  Still,  it  is  curious  to  remark,  in  this 
place,  how  art  and  literature  become  party  matters,  and 
political  sects  have  their  favourite  painters  and  authors. 

Nevertheless,  Jacques  Louis  David  is  dead.  He  died 
about  a  year  after  his  bodily  demise  in  1825.  The  roman- 
ticism killed  him.  Walter  Scott,  from  his  Castle  of 
Abbotsford,  sent  out  a  troop  of  gallant  young  Scotch 
adventurers,  merry  outlaws,  valiant  knights,  and  savage 
Highlanders,  who,  with  trunk  hosen  and  buff  jerkins, 
fierce  two-handed  swords,  and  harness  on  their  back,  did 
challenge,  combat,  and  overcome  the  heroes  and  demi- 
gods of  Greece  and  Rome.  Notre  Dame  a  la  rescousse! 
Sir  Brian  de  Bois  Guilbert  has  borne  Hector  of  Troy 
clear  out  of  his  saddle.  Andromache  may  weep:  but 
her  spouse  is  beyond  the  reach  of  physic.  See!  Robin 
Hood  twangs  his  bow,  and  the  heathen  gods  fly,  howling. 
Montjoie  Saint  Denis!  down  goes  Ajax  under  the  mace 
of  Dunois ;  and  yonder  are  Leonidas  and  Romulus  beg- 
ging their  lives  of  Rob  Roy  Macgregor.  Classicism  is 
dead.  Sir  John  Froissart  has  taken  Dr.  Lempriere  by 
the  nose,  and  reigns  sovereign. 

Of  the  great  pictures  of  David  the  defunct,  we  need 
not,  then,  say  much.  Romulus  is  a  mighty  fine  young 
fellow,  no  doubt ;  and  if  he  has  come  out  to  battle  stark 
naked  (except  a  very  handsome  helmet),  it  is  because 
the  costume  became  him,  and  shows  off  his  figure  to  ad- 
vantage. But  was  there  ever  anything  so  absurd  as  this 
passion  for  the  nude,  which  was  followed  by  all  the 
painters  of  the  Davidian  epoch?  And  how  are  we  to 
suppose  yonder  straddle  to  be  the  true  characteristic  of 
the  heroic  and  the  sublime?    Romulus  stretches  his  legs 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     73 

as  far  as  ever  nature  will  allow ;  the  Horatii,  in  receiving 
their  swords,  think  proper  to  stretch  their  legs  too,  and 
to  thrust  forward  their  arms,  thus,— 

Romulus.  The  HoratiL 

Romulus's  is  the  exact  action  of  a  telegraph;  and  the 
Horatii  are  all  in  the  position  of  the  lunge.  Is  this  the 
sublime?  Mr.  Angelo,  of  Bond  Street,  might  admire 
the  attitude ;  his  namesake,  IVIichel,  I  don't  think  would. 

The  little  picture  of  "  Paris  and  Helen,"  one  of  the 
master's  earliest,  I  believe,  is  likewise  one  of  his  best: 
the  details  are  exquisitely  painted.  Helen  looks  need- 
lessly sheepish,  and  Paris  has  a  most  odious  ogle;  but 
the  limbs  of  the  male  figure  are  beautifully  designed, 
and  have  not  the  green  tone  which  you  see  in  the  later 
pictures  of  the  master.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this 
green?  Was  it  the  fashion,  or  the  varnish?  Girodet's 
pictures  are  green ;  Gros's  emperors  and  grenadiers  have 
universally  the  jaundice.  Gerard's  "  Psyche  "  has  a 
most  decided  green-sickness;  and  I  am  at  a  loss,  I 
confess,  to  account  for  the  enthusiasm  which  this  per- 
formance inspired  on  its  first  appearance  before  the 
public. 

In  the  same  room  with  it  is  Girodet's  ghastly  "  Del- 
uge," and  Gericault's  dismal  "  Medusa."  Gericault 
died,  they  say,  for  want  of  fame.  He  was  a  man  who 
possessed  a  considerable  fortune  of  his  own;  but  pined 
because  no  one  in  his  day  would  purchase  his  pictures, 
and  so  acknowledge  his  talent.  At  present,  a  scrawl 
from  his  pencil  brings  an  enormous  price.    All  his  works 


74.  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

have  a  grand  cachet:  he  never  did  anything  mean. 
When  he  painted  the  "  Raft  of  the  Medusa,"  it  is  said  he 
hved  for  a  long  time  among  the  corpses  which  he 
painted,  and  that  his  studio  was  a  second  Morgue.  If 
you  have  not  seen  the  picture,  you  are  f amihar,  probably, 
with  Reynolds's  admirable  engraving  of  it.  A  huge 
black  sea;  a  raft  beating  upon  it;  a  horrid  company  of 
men  dead,  half  dead,  writhing  and  frantic  with  hideous 
hunger  or  hideous  hope ;  and,  far  away,  black,  against  a 
stormy  sunset,  a  sail.  The  story  is  powerfully  told,  and 
has  a  legitimate  tragic  interest,  so  to  speak, — deeper,  be- 
cause more  natural,  than  Girodet's  green  "  Deluge,"  for 
instance:  or  his  livid  "  Orestes,"  or  red-hot  "  Clytem- 
nestra." 

Seen  from  a  distance,  the  latter 's  "  Deluge  "  has  a 
certain  awe-inspiring  air  with  it.  A  slimy  green  man 
stands  on  a  green  rock,  and  clutches  hold  of  a  tree.  On 
the  green  man's  shoulders  is  his  old  father,  in  a  green  old 
age ;  to  him  hangs  his  wife,  with  a  babe  on  her  breast,  and 
dangling  at  her  hair,  another  child.  In  the  water  floats 
a  corpse  (a  beautiful  head)  ;  and  a  green  sea  and  at- 
mosphere envelops  all  this  dismal  group.  The  old  father 
is  represented  with  a  bag  of  money  in  his  hand ;  and  the 
tree,  which  the  man  catches,  is  cracking,  and  just  on  the 
point  of  giving  way.  These  two  points  were  considered 
very  fine  by  the  critics:  they  are  two  such  ghastly  epi- 
grams as  continually  disfigure  French  Tragedy.  For 
this  reason  I  have  never  been  able  to  read  Racine  with 
pleasure, — the  dialogue  is  so  crammed  with  these  lugu- 
brious good  things— melancholy  antitheses— sparkling 
undertakers'  wit;  but  this  is  heresy,  and  had  better  be 
spoken  discreetly. 

The  gallery  contains  a  vast  number  of  Poussin's  pic- 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING     75 

tures;  they  put  me  in  mind  of  the  colour  of  objects  in 
dreams, — a  strange,  hazy,  lurid  hue.  How  noble  are 
some  of  his  landscapes !  What  a  depth  of  solemn  shadow 
is  in  yonder  wood,  near  which,  by  the  side  of  a  black 
water,  halts  Diogenes.  The  air  is  thunder-laden,  and 
breathes  heavily.  You  hear  ominous  whispers  in  the 
vast  forest  gloom. 

Near  it  is  a  landscape,  by  Carel  Dujardin,  I  believe, 
conceived  in  quite  a  different  mood,  but  exquisitely  poet- 
ical too.  A  horseman  is  riding  up  a  hill,  and  giving 
money  to  a  blowsy  beggar-wench.  O  matutini  rores 
aurceque  saluhres!  in  what  a  wonderful  way  has  the 
artist  managed  to  create  you  out  of  a  few  bladders  of 
paint  and  pots  of  varnish.  You  can  see  the  matutinal 
dews  twinkling  in  the  grass,  and  feel  the  fresh,  salubrious 
airs  ("  the  breath  of  Nature  blowing  free,"  as  the  corn- 
law  man  sings)  blowing  free  over  the  heath;  silvery 
vapours  are  rising  up  from  the  blue  lowlands.  You  can 
tell  the  hour  of  the  morning  and  the  time  of  the  year: 
you  can  do  anything  but  describe  it  in  words.  As  with 
regard  to  the  Poussin  above  mentioned,  one  can  never 
pass  it  without  bearing  away  a  certain  pleasing,  dreamy 
feeling  of  awe  and  musing;  the  other  landscape  inspires 
the  spectator  infallibly  with  the  most  delightful  brisk- 
ness and  cheerfulness  of  spirit.  Herein  lies  the  vast 
privilege  of  the  landscape-painter:  he  does  not  address 
you  with  one  fixed  particular  subject  or  expression,  but 
with  a  thousand  never  contemplated  by  himself,  and 
which  only  arise  out  of  occasion.  You  may  always  be 
looking  at  a  natural  landscape  as  at  a  fine  pictorial  imita- 
tion of  one;  it  seems  eternally  producing  new  thoughts 
in  your  bosom,  as  it  does  fresh  beauties  from  its  own.  I 
cannot  fancy  more  delightful,  cheerful,  silent  compan- 


76  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

ions  for  a  man  than  half  a  dozen  landscapes  hung  round 
his  study.  Portraits,  on  the  contrary,  and  large  pieces 
of  figures,  have  a  painful,  fixed,  staring  look,  which 
must  jar  upon  the  mind  in  many  of  its  moods.  Fancy 
living  in  a  room  with  David's  sans-culotte  Leonidas 
staring  perpetually  in  your  face! 

There  is  a  little  Watteau  here,  and  a  rare  piece  of 
fantastical  brightness  and  gaiety  it  is.  What  a  delight- 
ful affectation  about  yonder  ladies  flirting  their  fans, 
and  trailing  about  in  their  long  brocades!  What  splen- 
did dandies  are  those,  ever-smirking,  turning  out  their 
toes,  with  broad  blue  ribbons  to  tie  up  their  crooks  and 
their  pigtails,  and  wonderful  gorgeous  crimson  satin 
breeches !  Yonder,  in  the  midst  of  a  golden  atmosphere, 
rises  a  bevy  of  little  round  Cupids,  bubbling  up  in  clus- 
ters as  out  of  a  champagne-bottle,  and  melting  away  in 
air.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  hidden  analogy  between 
liquors  and  pictures:  the  eye  is  deliciously  tickled  by 
these  frisky  Watteaus,  and  yields  itself  up  to  a  light, 
smiling,  gentlemanlike  intoxication.  Thus,  were  we 
inclined  to  pursue  further  this  mighty  subject,  yonder 
landscape  of  Claude,  — calm,  fresh,  delicate,  yet  full  of 
flavour,— should  be  likened  to  a  bottle  of  Chateau  Mar- 
gaux.  And  what  is  the  Poussin  before  spoken  of  but 
Romance  Gelee? — heavy,  sluggish, — the  luscious  odour 
almost  sickens  you;  a  sultry  sort  of  drink;  your  limbs 
sink  under  it;  you  feel  as  if  you  had  been  drinking  hot 
blood. 

An  ordinary  man  would  be  whirled  away  in  a  fever, 
or  would  hobble  off  this  mortal  stage,  in  a  premature 
gout-fit,  if  he  too  early  or  too  often  indulged  in  such 
tremendous  drink.  I  think  in  my  heart  I  am  fonder  of 
pretty  third-rate  pictures  than  of  your  great  thundering 
first-rates.     Confess  how  many  times  you  have  read 


THE  FRENCH  SCHOOL  OF  PAINTING    77 

Beranger,  and  hov/  many  JNIilton?  If  you  go  to  the 
Star  and  Garter,  don't  you  grow  sick  of  that  vast,  lus- 
cious landscape,  and  long  for  the  sight  of  a  couple  of 
cows,  or  a  donkey,  and  a  few  yards  of  common?  Don- 
keys, my  dear  MacGilp,  since  we  have  come  to  this  sub- 
ject, say  not  so;  Richmond  Hill  for  them.  Milton  they 
never  grow  tired  of;  and  are  as  familiar  with  Raphael 
as  Bottom  with  exquisite  Titania.  Let  us  thank  heaven, 
my  dear  sir,  for  according  to  us  the  power  to  taste  and 
appreciate  the  pleasures  of  mediocrity.  I  have  never 
heard  that  we  were  great  geniuses.  Earthy  are  we,  and 
of  the  earth ;  glimpses  of  the  sublime  are  but  rare  to  us ; 
leave  we  them  to  great  geniuses,  and  to  the  donkeys ;  and 
if  it  nothing  profit  us  aerias  tentdsse  domos  along  with 
them,  let  us  thankfully  remain  below,  being  merry  and 
humble. 

I  have  now  only  to  mention  the  charming  "  Cruche 
Cassee  "  of  Greuze,  which  all  the  young  ladies  delight 
to  copy;  and  of  which  the  colour  (a  thought  too  blue, 
perhaps)  is  marvellously  graceful  and  delicate.  There 
are  three  more  pictures  by  the  artist,  containing  exquisite 
female  heads  and  colour;  but  they  have  charms  for 
French  critics  which  are  difficult  to  be  discovered  by 
English  eyes;  and  the  pictures  seem  weak  to  me.  A 
very  fine  picture  by  Bon  BoUongue,  "  Saint  Benedict 
resuscitating  a  Child,"  deserves  particular  attention,  and 
is  superb  in  vigour  and  richness  of  colour.  You  must 
look,  too,  at  the  large,  noble,  melancholy  landscapes  of 
Philippe  de  Champagne;  and  the  two  magnificent 
Italian  pictures  of  Leopold  Robert:  they  are,  perhaps, 
the  very  finest  pictures  that  the  French  school  has  pro- 
duced,— as  deep  as  Poussin,  of  a  better  colour,  and  of  a 
wonderful  minuteness  and  veracity  in  the  representation 
of  objects. 


78  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Every  one  of  Lesueur's  church-pictures  are  worth  ex- 
amining and  admiring;  they  are  full  of  "  unction  "  and 
pious  mystical  grace.  "Saint  Scholastica  "  is  divine; 
and  the  "  Taking  down  from  the  Cross  "  as  noble  a 
composition  as  ever  was  seen;  I  care  not  by  whom  the 
other  may  be.  There  is  more  beauty,  and  less  affectation, 
about  this  picture  than  you  will  find  in  the  performances 
of  many  Italian  masters,  with  high-sounding  names  (out 
with  it,  and  say  Raphael  at  once) .  I  hate  those  simper- 
ing Madonnas.  I  declare  that  the  "  Jardiniere  "  is  a 
puking,  smirking  miss,  with  nothing  heavenly  about  her. 
I  vow  that  the  "  Saint  Elizabeth  "  is  a  bad  picture,— a 
bad  composition,  badly  drawn,  badly  coloured,  in  a  bad 
imitation  of  Titian,— a  piece  of  vile  affectation.  I  say, 
that  when  Raphael  painted  this  picture  two  years  before 
his  death,  the  spirit  of  painting  had  gone  from  out  of 
him ;  he  was  no  longer  inspired ;  it  was  time  that  he  should 
die! ! 

There,— the  murder  is  out!  My  paper  is  filled  to  the 
brim,  and  there  is  no  time  to  speak  of  Lesueur's  "  Cruci- 
fixion," which  is  odiously  coloured,  to  be  sure;  but 
earnest,  tender,  simple,  holy.  But  such  things  are  most 
difficult  to  translate  into  words; — one  lays  down  the  pen, 
and  thinks  and  thinks.  The  figures  appear,  and  take 
their  places  one  by  one:  ranging  themselves  according 
to  order,  in  light  or  in  gloom,  the  colours  are  reflected 
duly  in  the  little  camera  obscura  of  the  brain,  and  the 
whole  picture  lies  there  complete;  but  can  you  describe 
it?  No,  not  if  pens  were  fitch-brushes,  and  words  were 
bladders  of  paint.    With  which,  for  the  present,  adieu. 

Your  faithful 

M.  A.  T. 

To  Mr.  Robert  MacGilp, 

Newman  Street,  London, 


THE    PAINTER'S    BARGAIN 

SIMON  GAMBOUGE  was  the  son  of  Solomon 
Gambouge;  and  as  all  the  world  knows,  both 
father  and  son  were  astonishingly  clever  fellows  at  their 
profession.  Solomon  painted  landscapes,  which  nobody- 
bought  ;  and  Simon  took  a  higher  line,  and  painted  por- 
traits to  admiration,  only  nobody  came  to  sit  to  him. 

As  he  was  not  gaining  five  pounds  a  year  by  his  pro- 
fession, and  had  arrived  at  the  age  of  twenty,  at  least, 
Simon  determined  to  better  himself  by  taking  a  wife, — 
a  plan  which  a  number  of  other  wise  men  adopt,  in  simi- 
lar years  and  circumstances.  So  Simon  prevailed  upon  a 
butcher's  daughter  (to  whom  he  owed  considerably  for 
cutlets)  to  quit  the  meat-shop  and  follow  him.  Griskin- 
issa — such  was  the  fair  creature's  name — "  was  as  lovely 
a  bit  of  mutton,"  her  father  said,  "  as  ever  a  man  would 
wish  to  stick  a  knife  into."  She  had  sat  to  the  painter  for 
all  sorts  of  characters;  and  the  curious  who  possess  any 
of  Gambouge's  pictures  will  see  her  as  Venus,  Minerva, 
Madonna,  and  in  numberless  other  characters:  Portrait 
of  a  lady— Griskinissa;  Sleeping  Nymph— Griskinissa, 
without  a  rag  of  clothes,  lying  in  a  forest;  Maternal 
Solicitude — Griskinissa  again,  with  young  Master  Gam- 
bouge, who  was  by  this  time  the  offspring  of  their  affec- 
tions. 

The  lady  brought  the  painter  a  handsome  little  fortune 
of  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds ;  and  as  long  as  this  sum 
lasted  no  woman  could  be  more  lovely  or  loving.     But 

79 


80  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

want  began  speedily  to  attack  their  little  household; 
bakers'  bills  were  unpaid ;  rent  was  due,  and  the  reckless 
landlord  gave  no  quarter;  and,  to  crown  the  whole,  her 
father,  unnatural  butcher!  suddenly  stopped  the  sup- 
plies of  mutton-chops ;  and  swore  that  his  daughter,  and 
the  dauber  her  husband,  should  have  no  more  of  his 
wares.  At  first  they  embraced  tenderly,  and,  kissing  and 
crying  over  their  little  infant,  vowed  to  heaven  that  they 
would  do  without :  but  in  the  course  of  the  evening  Gris- 
kinissa  grew  peckish,  and  poor  Simon  pawned  his  best 
coat. 

When  this  habit  of  pawning  is  discovered,  it  appears 
to  the  poor  a  kind  of  Eldorado.  Gambouge  and  his  wife 
were  so  delighted,  that  they,  in  the  course  of  a  month, 
made  away  with  her  gold  chain,  her  great  warming-pan, 
his  best  crimson  plush  inexpressibles,  two  wigs,  a  wash- 
hand  basin  and  ewer,  fire-irons,  window-curtains,  crock- 
ery, and  arm-chairs.  Griskinissa  said,  smiling,  that  she 
had  found  a  second  father  in  her  uncle,— 3b  base  pun, 
which  showed  that  her  mind  was  corrupted,  and  that  she 
was  no  longer  the  tender,  simple  Griskinissa  of  other 
days. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  she  had  taken  to  drinking;  she 
swallowed  the  warming-pan  in  the  course  of  three  daj^s, 
and  fuddled  herself  one  whole  evening  with  the  crimson 
plush  breeches. 

Drinking  is  the  devil— the  father,  that  is  to  say,  of  all 
vices.  Griskinissa's  face  and  her  mind  grew  ugly  to- 
gether; her  good  humour  changed  to  bilious,  bitter  dis- 
content; her  pretty,  fond  epithets,  to  foul  abuse  and 
swearing;  her  tender  blue  eyes  grew  watery  and  blear, 
and  the  peach-colour  on  her  cheeks  fled  from  its  old  hab- 
itation, and  crowded  up  into  her  nose,  where,  with  a 


THE    PAINTER'S    BARGAIN  81 

number  of  pimples,  it  stuck  fast.  Add  to  this  a  dirty, 
draggle-tailed  chintz;  long,  matted  hair,  wandering  into 
her  eyes,  and  over  her  lean  shoulders,  which  were  once 
so  snowy,  and  you  have  the  picture  of  drunkenness  and 
Mrs.  Simon  Gambouge. 

Poor  Simon,  w^ho  had  been  a  gay,  lively  fellow  enough 
in  the  days  of  his  better  fortune,  was  completely  cast 
down  by  his  present  ill  luck,  and  cowed  by  the  ferocity 
of  his  wife.  From  morning  till  night  the  neighbours 
could  hear  this  woman's  tongue,  and  understand  her  do- 
ings ;  bellows  went  skimming  across  the  room,  chairs  were 
flumped  down  on  the  floor,  and  poor  Gambouge's  oil  and 
varnish  pots  went  clattering  through  the  windows,  or 
down  the  stairs.  The  baby  roared  all  day;  and  Simon 
sat  pale  and  idle  in  a  corner,  taking  a  small  sup  at  the 
brandy-bottle,  when  JNIrs.  Gambouge  was  out  of  the  way. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  disconsolately  at  his  easel,  furbish- 
ing up  a  picture  of  his  wife,  in  the  character  of  Peace, 
which  he  had  commenced  a  year  before,  he  was  more 
than  ordinarily  desperate,  and  cursed  and  swore  in  the 
most  pathetic  manner.  "  O  miserable  fate  of  genius!  " 
cried  he,  "  was  I,  a  man  of  such  commanding  talents, 
born  for  this?  to  be  bullied  by  a  fiend  of  a  wife;  to  have 
my  master-pieces  neglected  by  the  world,  or  sold  only  for 
a  few  pieces?  Cursed  be  the  love  which  has  misled  me; 
cursed  be  the  art  which  is  unworthy  of  me !  Let  me  dig 
or  steal,  let  me  sell  myself  as  a  soldier,  or  sell  myself  to 
the  Devil,  I  should  not  be  more  wretched  than  I  am 
now !  " 

"  Quite  the  contrary,"  cried  a  small,  cheery  voice. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Gambouge,  trembling  and  sur- 
prised. "Who's  there?— where  are  you?— who  are 
you?" 


82 


THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 


"  You  were  just  speaking  of  me,"  said  the  voice. 

Gambouge  held,  in  his  left  hand,  his  palette;  in  his 
right,  a  bladder  of  crimson  lake,  which  he  was  about  to 
squeeze  out  upon  the  mahogany.  "Where  are  you?" 
cried  he  again. 

"  S-q-u-e-e-z-e! "  exclaimed  the  little  voice. 


Gambouge  picked  out  the  nail  from  the  bladder,  and 
gave  a  squeeze ;  when,  as  sure  as  I  am  living,  a  little  imp 
spurted  out  from  the  hole  upon  the  palette,  and  began 
laughing  in  the  most  singular  and  oily  manner. 

When  first  born  he  was  little  bigger  than  a  tadpole; 
then  he  grew  to  be  as  big  as  a  mouse ;  then  he  arrived  at 
the  size  of  a  cat ;  and  then  he  jumped  off  the  palette,  and, 


THE    PAINTER'S    BARGAIN  83 

turning  head  over  heels,  asked  the  poor  painter  what  he 

wanted  with  him. 

***** 

The  strange  httle  animal  twisted  head  over  heels,  and 
fixed  himself  at  last  upon  the  top  of  Gambouge's  easel, 
— smearing  out,  with  his  heels,  all  the  white  and  ver- 
milion which  had  just  been  laid  on  the  allegoric  portrait 
of  Mrs.  Gambouge. 

"  What!  "  exclaimed  Simon,  "  is  it  the—" 

"  Exactly  so ;  talk  of  me,  you  know,  and  I  am  al- 
ways at  hand:  besides,  I  am  not  half  so  black  as  I  am 
painted,  as  you  will  see  when  you  know  me  a  little 
better." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  the  painter,  "  it  is  a  very  sin- 
gular surprise  which  you  have  given  me.  To  tell  truth, 
I  did  not  even  believe  in  your  existence." 

The  little  imp  put  on  a  theatrical  air,  and,  with  one  of 
Mr.  Macready's  best  looks,  said, — 

"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Gambogio, 
Than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy." 

Gambouge,  being  a  Frenchman,  did  not  understand 
the  quotation,  but  felt  somehow  strangely  and  singularly 
interested  in  the  conversation  of  his  new  friend. 

Diabolus  continued:  "  You  are  a  man  of  merit,  and 
want  money ;  you  will  starve  on  your  merit ;  you  can  only 
get  money  from  me.  Come,  my  friend,  how  much  is  it? 
I  ask  the  easiest  interest  in  the  world :  old  Mordecai,  the 
usurer,  has  made  you  pay  twice  as  heavily  before  now: 
nothing  but  the  signature  of  a  bond,  which  is  a  mere 
ceremony,  and  the  transfer  of  an  article  which,  in  itself, 
is  a  supposition— a  valueless,  windy,  uncertain  property 


84  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

of  yours,  called,  by  some  poet  of  your  own,  I  think,  an 
animula,  vagulaj  hlandula — bah!  there  is  no  use  beating 
about  the  bush— I  mean  a  soul.  Come,  let  me  have  it; 
you  know  you  will  sell  it  some  other  way,  and  not  get 
such  good  pay  for  your  bargain!  " — and,  having  made 
this  speech,  the  Devil  pulled  out  from  his  fob  a  sheet 
as  big  as  a  double  Times,  only  there  was  a  different 
starnp  in  the  corner. 

It  is  useless  and  tedious  to  describe  law  documents: 
lawyers  only  love  to  read  them ;  and  they  have  as  good  in 
Chitty  as  any  that  are  to  be  found  in  the  Devil's  own; 
so  nobly  have  the  apprentices  emulated  the  skill  of  the 
master.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  poor  Gambouge  read  over 
the  paper,  and  signed  it.  He  was  to  have  all  he  wished 
for  seven  years,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  was  to  be- 
come the  property  of  the ;  protJiOcD  that,  during  the 

course  of  the  seven  years,  every  single  wish  which  he 
might  form  should  be  gratified  by  the  other  of  the  con- 
tracting parties ;  otherwise  the  deed  became  null  and  non- 
avenue,  and  Gambouge  should  be  left  "to  go  to  the 
his  own  way." 

"  You  will  never  see  me  again,"  said  Diabolus,  in  shak- 
ing hands  with  poor  Simon,  on  whose  fingers  he  left  such 
a  mark  as  is  to  be  seen  at  this  day—"  never,  at  least, 
unless  you  want  me ;  for  everything  you  ask  will  be  per- 
formed in  the  most  quiet  and  every-day  manner:  believe 
me,  it  is  best  and  most  gentlemanlike,  and  avoids  any- 
thing like  scandal.  But  if  you  set  me  about  anything 
which  is  extraordinary,  and  out  of  the  course  of  nature, 
as  it  were,  come  I  must,  you  know;  and  of  this  you  are 
the  best  judge."  So  saying,  Diabolus  disappeared;  but 
whether  up  the  chimney,  through  the  keyhole,  or  by  any 
other  aperture  or  contrivance,  nobody  knows.     Simon 


THE    PAINTER'S    BARGAIN  85 

Gambouge  was  left  in  a  fever  of  delight,  as,  heaven  for- 
give me!  I  believe  many  a  worthy  man  would  be,  if  he 
were  allowed  an  opportunity  to  make  a  similar  bargain. 

"  Heigho!  "  said  Simon.  "  I  wonder  whether  this  be 
a  reality  or  a  dream.  I  am  sober,  I  know ;  for  who  will 
give  me  credit  for  the  means  to  be  drunk?  and  as  for 
sleeping,  I'm  too  hungry  for  that.  I  wish  I  could  see  a 
capon  and  a  bottle  of  white  wine." 

"Monsieur  Simon!"  cried  a  voice  on  the  landing- 
place. 

"  C'est  ici,"  quoth  Gambouge,  hastening  to  open  the 
door.  He  did  so ;  and  lo !  there  was  a  restaurateur's  boy 
at  the  door,  supporting  a  tray,  a  tin-covered  dish,  and 
plates  on  the  same ;  and,  by  its  side,  a  tall  amber-coloured 
flask  of  Sauterne. 

"  I  am  the  new  boy,  sir,"  exclaimed  this  youth,  on 
entering;  "  but  I  believe  this  is  the  right  door,  and  you 
asked  for  these  things." 

Simon  grinned,  and  said,  "  Certainly,  I  did  ash  for 
these  things."  But  such  was  the  effect  which  his  inter- 
view with  the  demon  had  had  on  his  innocent  mind,  that 
he  took  them,  although  he  knew  that  they  were  for  old 
Simon,  the  Jew  dandy,  who  was  mad  after  an  opera 
girl,  and  lived  on  the  floor  beneath. 

"  Go,  my  boy,"  he  said ;  "  it  is  good :  call  in  a  couple 
of  hours,  and  remove  the  plates  and  glasses." 

The  little  waiter  trotted  downstairs,  and  Simon  sat 
greedily  down  to  discuss  the  capon  and  the  white  wine. 
He  bolted  the  legs,  he  devoured  the  wings,  he  cut  every 
morsel  of  flesh  from  the  breast; — seasoning  his  repast 
with  pleasant  draughts  of  wine,  and  caring  nothing  for 
the  inevitable  bill,  which  was  to  follow  all. 

"  Ye  gods!  "  said  he,  as  he  scraped  away  at  the  back- 


86  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

bone,  "  what  a  dinner!  what  wine!— and  how  gaily  served 
up  too!  "  There  were  silver  forks  and  spoons,  and  the 
remnants  of  the  fowl  were  upon  a  silver  dish.  "  Why, 
the  money  for  this  dish  and  these  spoons,"  cried  Simon, 
"  would  keep  me  and  Mrs.  G.  for  a  month!  I  wish  " 
— and  here  Simon  whistled,  and  turned  round  to  see  that 
nobody  was  peeping — "  I  wish  the  plate  were  mine." 

Oh,  the  horrid  progress  of  the  Devil!  "Here  they 
are,"  thought  Simon  to  himself;  "why  should  not  I 
take  them?  "  And  take  them  he  did.  "  Detection,"  said 
he,  "  is  not  so  bad  as  starvation;  and  I  would  as  soon  live 
at  the  galleys  as  live  with  Madame  Gambouge." 

So  Gambouge  shovelled  dish  and  spoons  into  the  flap 
of  his  surtout,  and  ran  downstairs  as  if  the  Devil  were 
behind  him — as,  indeed,  he  was. 

He  immediately  made  for  the  house  of  his  old  friend 
the  pawnbroker — that  establishment  which  is  called  in 
France  the  Mont  de  Piete.  "  I  am  obliged  to  come  to 
you  again,  my  old  friend,"  said  Simon,  "  with  some  fam- 
ily plate,  of  which  I  beseech  you  to  take  care." 

The  pawnbroker  smiled  as  he  examined  the  goods.  "  I 
can  give  you  nothing  upon  them,"  said  he. 

"What!"  cried  Simon;  "not  even  the  worth  of  the 
silver?  " 

"  No;  I  could  buy  them  at  that  price  at  the  '  Cafe 
Morisot,'  Rue  de  la  Verrerie,  where,  I  suppose,  you  got 
them  a  little  cheaper."  And,  so  saying,  he  showed  to  the 
guilt-stricken  Gambouge  how  the  name  of  that  coffee- 
house was  inscribed  upon  every  one  of  the  articles  which 
he  had  wished  to  pawn. 

The  effects  of  conscience  are  dreadful  indeed.  Oh! 
how  fearful  is  retribution,  how  deep  is  despair,  how  bitter 
is  remorse  for  crime— w^e/i  crime  is  found  out!— other- 


THE    PAINTER'S    BARGAIN  87 

wise,  conscience  takes  matters  much  more  easily.  Gam- 
bouge  cursed  his  fate,  and  swore  henceforth  to  be  vir- 
tuous. 

"  But,  hark  ye,  my  friend,"  continued  the  honest 
broker,  "  there  is  no  reason  why,  because  I  cannot  lend 
upon  these  things,  I  should  not  buy  them:  they  will  do 
to  melt,  if  for  no  other  purpose.  Will  you  have  half 
the  money! — speak,  or  I  peach." 

Simon's  resolves  about  virtue  were  dissipated  instan- 
taneously. "  Give  me  half,"  he  said,  "  and  let  me  go. 
— What  scoundrels  are  these  pawnbrokers!  "  ejaculated 
he,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  accursed  shop,  "  seeking  every 
wicked  pretext  to  rob  the  poor  man  of  his  hard-won 
gain." 

When  he  had  marched  forwards  for  a  street  or  two, 
Gambouge  counted  the  money  which  he  had  received, 
and  found  that  he  was  in  possession  of  no  less  than  a 
hundred  francs.  It  was  night,  as  he  reckoned  out  his 
equivocal  gains,  and  he  counted  them  at  the  light  of  a 
lamp.  He  looked  up  at  the  lamp,  in  doubt  as  to  the  course 
he  should  next  pursue:  upon  it  was  inscribed  the  simple 
number,  152.  "  A  gambling-house,"  thought  Gam- 
bouge. "  I  WISH  I  had  half  the  money  that  is  now  on 
the  table,  upstairs." 

Pie  mounted,  as  many  a  rogue  has  done  before  him, 
and  found  half  a  hundred  persons  busy  at  a  table  of 
rouge  et  noir.  Gambouge's  five  napoleons  looked  in- 
significant by  the  side  of  the  heaps  which  were  around 
him ;  but  the  effects  of  the  wine,  of  the  theft,  and  of  the 
detection  by  the  pawnbroker,  were  upon  him,  and  he 
threw  down  his  capital  stoutly  upon  the  0  0. 

It  is  a  dangerous  spot  that  0  0,  or  double  zero ;  but  to 
Simon  it  was  more  lucky  than  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 


88  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

The  ball  went  spinning  round — in  "  its  predestined  circle 
rolled,"  as  Shelley  has  it,  after  Goethe— and  plumped 
down  at  last  in  the  double  zero.  One  hundred  and  thirty- 
five  gold  napoleons  (louis  they  were  then)  were  counted 
out  to  the  delighted  painter.  "  Oh,  Diabolus!  "  cried  he, 
"now  it  is  that  I  begin  to  believe  in  thee!  Don't 
talk  about  merit,"  he  cried ;  "  talk  about  fortune. 
Tell  me  not  about  heroes  for  the  future— tell  me 
of  zeroes."  And  down  went  twenty  napoleons  more 
upon  the  0. 

The  Devil  was  certainly  in  the  ball:  round  it  twirled, 
and  dropped  into  zero  as  naturally  as  a  duck  pops  its 
head  into  a  pond.  Our  friend  received  five  hundred 
pounds  for  his  stake;  and  the  croupiers  and  lookers-on 
began  to  stare  at  him. 

There  were  twelve  thousand  pounds  on  the  table. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  Simon  won  half,  and  retired  from 
the  Palais  Royal  with  a  thick  bundle  of  bank-notes 
crammed  into  his  dirty  three-cornered  hat.  He  had 
been  but  half  an  hour  in  the  place,  and  he  had  won  the 
revenues  of  a  prince  for  half  a  year! 

Gambouge,  as  soon  as  he  felt  that  he  was  a  capitalist, 
and  that  he  had  a  stake  in  the  country,  discovered  that  he 
was  an  altered  man.  He  repented  of  his  foul  deed,  and 
his  base  purloining  of  the  restaurateur's  plate.  "  O  hon- 
esty!" he  cried,  "how  unworthy  is  an  action  like  this 
of  a  man  who  has  a  property  like  mine ! "  So  he  went 
back  to  the  pawnbroker  with  the  gloomiest  face  imagi- 
nable. "  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  have  sinned  against  all 
that  I  hold  most  sacred :  I  have  forgotten  my  family  and 
my  religion.  Here  is  thy  money.  In  the  name  of 
heaven,  restore  me  the  plate  which  I  have  wrongfully 
sold  thee!" 


THE    PAINTER'S    BARGAIN  89 

But  the  pawnbroker  grinned,  and  said,  "  Nay,  Mr. 
Gambouge,  I  will  sell  that  plate  for  a  thousand  francs  to 
you,  or  I  never  will  sell  it  at  all." 

"  Well,"  cried  Gambouge,  "  thou  art  an  inexorable 
ruffian,  Troisboules;  but  I  will  give  thee  all  I  am  worth." 
And  here  he  produced  a  billet  of  five  hundred  francs. 
"  Look,"  said  he,  "  this  money  is  all  I  own;  it  is  the  pay- 
ment of  two  years'  lodging.  To  raise  it,  I  have  toiled 
for  many  months;  and,  failing,  I  have  been  a  criminal. 

0  heaven!  I  stole  that  plate  that  I  might  pay  my  debt, 
and  keep  my  dear  wife  from  wandering  houseless.    But 

1  cannot  bear  this  load  of  ignominy — I  cannot  suffer 
the  thought  of  this  crime.  I  will  go  to  the  person  to 
whom  I  did  wrong.  I  will  starve,  I  will  confess;  but 
I  will,  I  will  do  right! " 

The  broker  was  alarmed.  "  Give  me  thy  note,"  he 
cried;  "here  is  the  plate." 

"  Give  me  an  acquittal  first,"  cried  Simon,  almost 
broken-hearted;  "sign  me  a  paper,  and  the  money  is 
yours."  So  Troisboules  wrote  according  to  Gambouge's 
dictation:  "Received,  for  thirteen  ounces  of  plate, 
twenty  pounds." 

"  Monster  of  iniquity! "  cried  the  painter,  "  fiend  of 
wickedness!  thou  art  caught  in  thine  own  snares.  Hast 
thou  not  sold  me  five  pounds'  worth  of  plate  for  twenty  ? 
Have  I  it  not  in  my  pocket?  Art  thou  not  a  convicted 
dealer  in  stolen  goods?  Yield,  scoundrel,  yield  thy 
money,  or  I  will  bring  thee  to  justice!  " 

The  frightened  pawnbroker  bullied  and  battled  for 
a  while ;  but  he  gave  up  his  money  at  last,  and  the  dispute 
ended.  Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  Diabolus  had  rather  a 
hard  bargain  in  the  wily  Gambouge.  He  had  taken  a 
victim  prisoner,  but  he  had  assuredly  caught  a  Tartar. 


90  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Simon  now  returned  home,  and,  to  do  him  justice,  paid 
the  bill  for  his  dinner,  and  restored  the  plate. 

*jte  ^£  Jig,  jijf, 

'^V  rj%  ¥^  V|^ 

And  now  I  may  add  (and  the  reader  should  ponder 
upon  this,  as  a  profound  picture  of  human  life),  that 
Gambouge,  since  he  had  grown  rich,  grew  likewise 
abundantly  moral.  He  was  a  most  exemplary  father. 
He  fed  the  poor,  and  was  loved  by  them.  He  scorned  a 
base  action.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Thurtell, 
or  the  late  lamented  Mr.  Greenacre,  in  similar  circum- 
stances, would  have  acted  like  the  worthy  Simon  Gam- 
bouge. 

There  was  but  one  blot  upon  his  character— he  hated 
Mrs.  Gam.  worse  than  ever.  As  he  grew  more  benevo- 
lent, she  grew  more  vimlent :  when  he  went  to  plaj^s,  she 
went  to  Bible  societies,  and  vice  versa:  in  fact,  she  led 
him  such  a  life  as  Xantippe  led  Socrates,  or  as  a  dog 
leads  a  cat  in  the  same  kitchen.  With  all  his  fortune 
— for,  as  may  be  supposed,  Simon  prospered  in  all 
worldly  things — he  was  the  most  miserable  dog  in  the 
whole  city  of  Paris.  Only  in  the  point  of  drinking  did 
he  and  Mrs.  Simon  agree;  and  for  many  years,  and 
during  a  considerable  number  of  hours  in  each  day,  he 
thus  dissipated,  partially,  his  domestic  chagrin.  O  phi- 
losophy !  we  may  talk  of  thee ;  but,  except  at  the  bottom 
of  the  wine-cup,  where  thou  liest  like  tinith  in  a  well, 
where  shall  we  find  thee  ? 

He  lived  so  long,  and  in  his  worldly  matters  prospered 
so  much,  there  was  so  little  sign  of  devilment  in  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  wishes,  and  the  increase  of  his  pros- 
perity, that  Simon,  at  the  end  of  six  years,  began  to  doubt 
whether  he  had  made  any  such  bargain  at  all,  as  that 
which  we  have  described  at  the  commencement  of  this 


THE    PAINTER'S    BARGAIN  91 

history.  He  had  grown,  as  we  said,  very  pious  and 
moral.  He  went  regularly  to  mass,  and  had  a  confessor 
into  the  bargain.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to  consult  that 
reverend  gentleman,  and  to  lay  before  him  the  whole 
matter. 

"I  am  inclined  to  think,  holy  sir,"  said  Gambouge, 
after  he  had  concluded  his  history,  and  shown  how,  in 
some  miraculous  way,  all  his  desires  were  accomplished, 
"  that,  after  all,  this  demon  was  no  other  than  the  crea- 
tion of  my  own  brain,  heated  by  the  effects  of  that  bottle 
of  wine,  the  cause  of  my  crime  and  my  prosperity." 

The  confessor  agreed  with  him,  and  they  walked  out 
of  church  comfortably  together,  and  entered  after- 
wards a  cafe,  where  they  sat  down  to  refresh  themselves 
after  the  fatigues  of  their  devotion. 

A  respectable  old  gentleman,  with  a  number  of  orders 
at  his  button-hole,  presently  entered  the  room,  and  saun- 
tered up  to  the  marble  table,  before  which  reposed  Simon 
and  his  clerical  friend.  "  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  he 
said,  as  he  took  a  place  opposite  them,  and  began  read- 
ing the  papers  of  the  day. 

"  Bah!  "  said  he,  at  last,—"  sont-ils  grands  ces  jour- 
naux  Anglais?  Look,  sir,"  he  said,  handing  over  an 
immense  sheet  of  The  Times  to  Mr.  Gambouge,  "  was 
ever  anything  so  monstrous?" 

Gambouge  smiled  politely,  and  examined  the  prof- 
fered page.  "  It  is  enormous,"  he  said;  "  but  I  do  not 
read  English." 

"Nay,"  said  the  man  with  the  orders,  "look  closer  at  it, 
Signor  Gambouge;  it  is  astonishing  how  easy  the  lan- 
guage is." 

Wondering,  Simon  took  the  sheet  of  paper.  He 
turned  pale  as  he  looked  at  it,  and  began  to  curse  the 


92  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

ices  and  the  waiter.    "  Come,  M.  I'Abbe,"  he  said;  "  the 
heat  and  glare  of  this  place  are  intolerable." 

***** 

The  stranger  rose  with  them.  "  Au  plaisir  de  vous 
revoir,  mon  cher  monsieur,"  said  he;  "  I  do  not  mind 
speaking  before  the  Abbe  here,  who  will  be  my  very  good 
friend  one  of  these  days;  but  I  thought  it  necessary  to 
refresh  your  memory,  concerning  our  little  business 
transaction  six  years  since ;  and  could  not  exactly  talk  of 
it  at  church,  as  you  may  fancy." 

Simon  Gambouge  had  seen,  in  the  double-sheeted 
Times,  the  paper  signed  by  himself,  which  the  little  Devil 

had  pulled  out  of  his  fob. 

***** 

There  was  no  doubt  on  the  subject;  and  Simon,  who 
had  but  a  year  to  live,  grew  more  pious,  and  more  care- 
ful than  ever.  He  had  consultations  with  all  the  doctors 
of  the  Sorbonne  and  all  the  lawyers  of  the  Palais.  But 
his  magnificence  grew  as  wearisome  to  him  as  his  poverty 
had  been  before;  and  not  one  of  the  doctors  whom  he 
consulted  could  give  him  a  pennyworth  of  consolation. 

Then  he  grew  outrageous  in  his  demands  upon  the 
Devil,  and  put  him  to  all  sorts  of  absurd  and  ridiculous 
tasks;  but  they  were  all  punctually  performed,  until 
Simon  could  invent  no  new  ones,  and  the  Devil  sat  all 
day  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  doing  nothing. 

One  day,  Simon's  confessor  came  bounding  into  the 
room,  with  the  greatest  glee.  "  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  I 
have  it!  Eureka!— I  have  found  it.  Send  the  Pope  a 
hundred  thousand  crowns,  build  a  new  Jesuit  college  at 
Rome,  give  a  hundred  gold  candlesticks  to  St.  Peter's; 
and  tell  his  Holiness  you  will  double  all,  if  he  will  give 
you  absolution !  " 


THE    PAINTER'S    BARGAIN  93 

Gambouge  caught  at  the  notion,  and  hurried  off  a 
courier  to  Rome  ventre  a  terre.  His  HoHness  agreed  to 
the  request  of  the  petition,  and  sent  him  an  absolution, 
written  out  with  his  own  fist,  and  all  in  due  form. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  foul  fiend,  I  defy  you!  arise,  Di- 
abolus!  your  contract  is  not  worth  a  jot:  the  Pope  has 
absolved  me,  and  I  am  safe  on  the  road  to  salvation."  In 
a  fervour  of  gratitude  he  clasped  the  hand  of  his  con- 
fessor, and  embraced  him:  tears  of  joy  ran  down  the 
cheeks  of  these  good  men. 

They  heard  an  inordinate  roar  of  laughter,  and  there 
was  Diabolus  sitting  opposite  to  them,  holding  his  sides, 
and  lashing  his  tail  about,  as  if  he  would  have  gone  mad 
with  glee. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  what  nonsense  is  this!  do  you  sup- 
pose I  care  about  that?  "  and  he  tossed  the  Pope's  mis- 
sive into  a  corner.  "  M.  I'Abbe  knows,"  he  said, 
bowing  and  grinning,  "  that  though  the  Pope's  paper 
may  pass  current  here,  it  is  not  worth  twopence  in 
our  country.  What  do  I  care  about  the  Pope's  abso- 
lution? You  might  just  as  well  be  absolved  by  your 
under  butler." 

"  Egad,"  said  the  Abbe,  "  the  rogue  is  right— I  quite 
forgot  the  fact,  which  he  points  out  clearly  enough." 

"  No,  no,  Gambouge,"  continued  Diabolus,  with  hor- 
rid familiarity,  "  go  thy  ways,  old  fellow,  that  cock 
wont  fight."  And  he  retired  up  the  chimney,  chuckling 
at  his  wit  and  his  triumph.  Gambouge  heard  his  tail 
scuttling  all  the  way  up,  as  if  he  had  been  a  sweeper  by 
profession. 

Simon  was  left  in  that  condition  of  grief  in  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  newspapers,  cities  and  nations  are  found 
when  a  murder  is  committed,  or  a  lord  ill  of  the  gout 


94  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

— a  situation,  we  say,  more  easy  to  imagine  than  to 
describe. 

To  add  to  his  woes,  Mrs.  Gambouge,  who  was  now 
first  made  acquainted  with  his  compact,  and  its  probable 
consequences,  raised  such  a  storm  about  his  ears,  as  made 
him  wish  almost  that  his  seven  years  were  expired.  She 
screamed,  she  scolded,  she  swore,  she  wept,  she  went  into 
such  fits  of  hysterics,  that  poor  Gambouge,  who  had  com- 
pletely knocked  under  to  her,  was  worn  out  of  his  life. 
He  was  allowed  no  rest,  night  or  day:  he  moped  about 
his  fine  house,  solitary  and  wretched,  and  cursed  his  stars 
that  he  ever  had  married  the  butcher's  daughter. 

It  wanted  six  months  of  the  time. 

A  sudden  and  desperate  resolution  seemed  all  at  once 
to  have  taken  possession  of  Simon  Gambouge.  He 
called  his  family  and  his  friends  together — he  gave  one 
of  the  greatest  feasts  that  ever  was  known  in  the  city 
of  Paris — he  gaily  presided  at  one  end  of  his  table,  while 
Mrs.  Gam.,  splendidly  arrayed,  gave  herself  airs  at  the 
other  extremity. 

After  dinner,  using  the  customary  formula,  he  called 
upon  Diabolus  to  appear.  The  old  ladies  screamed,  and 
hoped  he  would  not  appear  naked;  the  young  ones  tit- 
tered, and  longed  to  see  the  monster :  everybody  was  pale 
with  expectation  and  affright. 

A  very  quiet,  gentlemanly  man,  neatly  dressed  in 
black,  made  his  appearance,  to  the  surprise  of  all  present, 
and  bowed  all  round  to  the  company.  "  I  will  not  show 
my  credentials''  he  said,  blushing,  and  pointing  to  his 
hoofs,  which  were  cleverly  hidden  by  his  pumps  and 
shoe-buckles,  "unless  the  ladies  absolutely  wish  it;  but 
I  am  the  person  you  want,  Mr.  Gambouge ;  pray  tell  me 
what  is  your  will." 


THE    PAINTER'S  BARGAIN  95 

"  You  know,"  said  that  gentleman,  in  a  stately  and 
determined  voice,  "  that  you  are  bound  to  me,  according 
to  our  agreement,  for  six  months  to  come." 

"  I  am,"  replied  the  new  comer. 

*'  You  are  to  do  all  that  I  ask,  whatsoever  it  may  be, 
or  you  forfeit  the  bond  which  I  gave  you? " 

"  It  is  true." 

*'  You  declare  this  before  the  present  company? " 

"  Upon  my  honour,  as  a  gentleman,"  said  Diabolus, 
bowing,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  his  waistcoat. 

A  whisper  of  applause  ran  round  the  room:  all  were 
charmed  with  the  bland  manners  of  the  fascinating 
stranger. 

"  My  love,"  continued  Gambouge,  mildly  addressing 
his  lady,  "  will  you  be  so  polite  as  to  step  this  way?  You 
know  I  must  go  soon,  and  I  am  anxious,  before  this  noble 
company,  to  make  a  provision  for  one  who,  in  sickness  as 
in  health,  in  poverty  as  in  riches,  has  been  my  truest  and 
fondest  companion." 

Gambouge  mopped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief 
— all  the  company  did  likewise.  Diabolus  sobbed  audi- 
bly, and  Mrs.  Gambouge  sidled  up  to  her  husband's  side, 
and  took  him  tenderly  by  the  hand.  "  Simon!  "  said  she, 
"  is  it  true?  and  do  you  really  love  your  Griskinissa?  " 

Simon  continued  solemnly:  "  Come  hither,  Diabolus; 
you  are  bound  to  obey  me  in  all  things  for  the  six  months 
during  which  our  contract  has  to  run;  take,  then,  Gris- 
kinissa Gambouge,  live  alone  with  her  for  half  a  year, 
never  leave  her  from  morning  till  night,  obey  all  her 
caprices,  follow  all  her  whims,  and  listen  to  all  the  abuse 
which  falls  from  her  infernal  tongue.  Do  this,  and  I 
ask  no  more  of  you ;  I  will  deliver  myself  up  at  the  ap- 
pointed time." 


96  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Not  Lord  G when  flogged  by  Lord  B in  the 

House,— not  Mr.  Cartlitch,  of  Astley's  Amphitheatre, 
in  his  most  pathetic  passages,  could  look  more  crest- 
fallen, and  howl  more  hideously,  than  Diabolus  did  now. 
*' Take  another  year,  Gambouge,"  screamed  he;  "two 
more — ten  more — a  century;  roast  me  on  Lawrence's 
gridiron,  boil  me  in  holy  water,  but  don't  ask  that :  don't, 
don't  bid  me  live  with  Mrs.  Gambouge !  " 

Simon  smiled  sternly.  "  I  have  said  it,"  he  cried;  "  do 
this,  or  our  contract  is  at  an  end." 

The  Devil,  at  this,  grinned  so  horribly  that  every  drop 

of  beer  in  the  house  turned  sour :  he  gnashed  his  teeth  so 

frightfully  that  every  person  in  the  company  well  nigh 

fainted  with  the  colic.     He  slapped  down  the  great 

parchment  upon  the  floor,  trampled  upon  it  madly,  and 

lashed  it  with  his  hoofs  and  his  tail :  at  last,  spreading  out 

a  mighty  pair  of  wings  as  wide  as  from  here  to  Regent 

Street,  he  slapped  Gambouge  with  his  tail  over  one  eye, 

and  vanished,  abruptly,  through  the  keyhole. 

***** 

Gambouge  screamed  with  pain  and  started  up.  "  You 
drunken,  lazy  scoundrel! "  cried  a  shrill  and  well-known 
voice,  "  you  have  been  asleep  these  two  hours:  "  and  here 
he  received  another  terrific  box  on  the  ear. 

It  was  too  true,  he  had  fallen  asleep  at  his  work ;  and 
the  beautiful  vision  had  been  dispelled  by  the  thumps  of 
the  tipsy  Griskinissa.  Nothing  remained  to  corroborate 
his  story,  except  the  bladder  of  lake,  and  this  was  spirted 
all  over  his  waistcoat  and  breeches. 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  rubbing  his  tingling 
cheeks,  "  that  dreams  were  true;  "  and  he  went  to  work 
again  at  his  portrait. 

***** 


A  Puzzle  for  the  Devil 


THE    PAINTER'S  BARGAIN  97 

My  last  accounts  of  Gambouge  are,  that  he  has  left 
the  arts,  and  is  footman  in  a  small  family.  Mrs.  Gam. 
takes  in  washing;  and  it  is  said  that  her  continual  deal- 
ings with  soap-suds  and  hot  water  have  been  the  only 
things  in  life  which  have  kept  her  from  spontaneous 
combustion. 


CARTOUCHE 

I  HAVE  been  much  interested  with  an  account  of  the 
exploits  of  Monsieur  Louis  Dominic  Cartouche, 
and  as  Newgate  and  the  highways  are  so  much  the 
fashion  with  us  in  England,  we  may  be  allowed  to  look 
abroad  for  histories  of  a  similar  tendency.  It  is  pleasant 
to  find  that  virtue  is  cosmopolite,  and  may  exist  among 
wooden-shoed  Papists  as  well  as  honest  Church-of -Eng- 
land men. 

Louis  Dominic  was  born  in  a  quarter  of  Paris  called 
the  Courtille,  says  the  historian  whose  work  lies  before 
me;— born  in  the  Courtille,  and  in  the  year  1693.  An- 
other biographer  asserts  that  he  was  born  two  years  later, 
and  in  the  Marais; — of  respectable  parents,  of  course. 
Think  of  the  talent  that  our  two  countries  produced 
about  this  time:  Marlborough,  Villars,  Mandrin,  Tur- 
pin,  Boileau,  Dryden,  Swift,  Addison,  Moliere,  Racine, 
Jack  Sheppard,  and  Louis  Cartouche — all  famous  within 
the  same  twenty  years,  and  fighting,  writing,  robbing 
a  Venvi! 

Well,  Marlborough  was  no  chicken  when  he  began  to 
show  his  genius;  Swift  was  but  a  dull,  idle,  college  lad; 
but  if  we  read  the  histories  of  some  other  great  men 
mentioned  in  the  above  list — I  mean  the  thieves,  es- 
pecially— we  shall  find  that  they  all  commenced  very 
early:  they  showed  a  passion  for  their  art,  as  little 
Raphael  did,  or  little  Mozart;  and  the  history  of  Car- 
touche's knaveries  begins  almost  with  his  breeches. 

98 


CARTOUCHE  99 

Dominic's  parents  sent  him  to  school  at  the  college 
of  Clermont  (now  Louis  le  Grand)  ;  and  although  it  has 
never  been  discovered  that  the  Jesuits,  who  directed  that 
seminary,  advanced  him  much  in  classical  or  theological 
knowledge.  Cartouche,  in  revenge,  showed,  by  repeated 
instances,  his  own  natural  bent  and  genius,  which  no 
difficulties  were  strong  enough  to  overcome.  His  first 
great  action  on  record,  although  not  successful  in  the 
end,  and  tinctured  with  the  innocence  of  youth,  is  yet 
highly  creditable  to  him.  He  made  a  general  swoop  of 
a  hundred  and  twenty  nightcaps  belonging  to  his  com- 
panions, and  disposed  of  them  to  his  satisfaction ;  but  as 
it  was  discovered  that  of  all  the  youths  in  the  college 
of  Clermont,  he  only  was  the  possessor  of  a  cap  to  sleep 
in,  suspicion  (which,  alas!  was  confirmed)  immediately 
fell  upon  him :  and  by  this  little  piece  of  youthful  naivete j 
a  scheme,  prettily  conceived  and  smartly  performed,  was 
rendered  naught. 

Cartouche  had  a  wonderful  love  for  good  eating,  and 
put  all  the  apple-women  and  cooks,  who  came  to  supply 
the  students,  under  contribution.  Not  always,  however, 
desirous  of  robbing  these,  he  used  to  deal  with  them,  oc- 
casionally, on  honest  principles  of  barter;  that  is,  when- 
ever he  could  get  hold  of  his  schoolfellows'  knives,  books, 
rulers,  or  playthings,  which  he  used  fairly  to  exchange 
for  tarts  and  gingerbread. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  presiding  genius  of  evil  was  de- 
termined to  patronize  this  young  man;  for  before  he 
had  been  long  at  college,  and  soon  after  he  had,  with 
the  greatest  difficulty,  escaped  from  the  nightcap  scrape, 
an  opportunity  occurred  by  which  he  was  enabled  to 
gratify  both  his  propensities  at  once,  and  not  only  to 
steal,  but  to  steal  sweetmeats.     It  happened  that  the 


100  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

principal  of  the  college  received  some  pots  of  Narbonne 
honey,  which  came  under  the  eyes  of  Cartouche,  and  in 
which  that  young  gentleman,  as  soon  as  ever  he  saw 
them,  determined  to  put  his  fingers.  The  president  of 
the  college  put  aside  his  honey-pots  in  an  apartment 
within  his  own ;  to  which,  except  by  the  one  door  which  led 
into  the  room  which  his  reverence  usually  occupied,  there 
was  no  outlet.  There  was  no  chimney  in  the  room ;  and 
the  windows  looked  into  the  court,  where  there  was  a 
porter  at  night  and  where  crowds  passed  by  day.  What 
was  Cartouche  to  do? — have  the  honey  he  must. 

Over  this  chamber,  which  contained  what  his  soul 
longed  after,  and  over  the  president's  rooms,  there  ran  a 
set  of  unoccupied  garrets,  into  which  the  dexterous  Car- 
touche penetrated.  These  were  divided  from  the  rooms 
below,  according  to  the  fashion  of  those  days,  by  a  set 
of  large  beams,  which  reached  across  the  whole  building, 
and  across  which  rude  planks  were  laid,  which  formed 
the  ceiling  of  the  lower  storey  and  the  floor  of  the  upper. 
Some  of  these  planks  did  young  Cartouche  remove ;  and 
having  descended  by  means  of  a  rope,  tied  a  couple  of 
others  to  the  neck  of  the  honey-pots,  climbed  back  again, 
and  drew  up  his  prey  in  safety.  He  then  cunningly 
fixed  the  planks  again  in  their  old  places,  and  retired  to 
gorge  himself  upon  his  booty.  And,  now,  see  the  pun- 
ishment of  avarice!  Everybody  knows  that  the  brethren 
of  the  order  of  Jesus  are  bound  by  a  vow  to  have  no  more 
than  a  certain  small  sum  of  money  in  their  possession. 
The  principal  of  the  college  of  Clermont  had  amassed 
a  larger  sum,  in  defiance  of  this  rule :  and  where  do  you 
think  the  old  gentleman  had  hidden  it?  In  the  honey- 
pots!  As  Cartouche  dug  his  spoon  into  one  of  them, 
he  brought  out,  besides  a  quantity  of  golden  honey,  a 


CARTOUCHE  101 

couple  of  golden  louis,  which,  with  ninety-eight  more  of 
their  fellows,  were  comfortably  hidden  in  the  pots.  Lit- 
tle Dominic,  who,  before,  had  cut  rather  a  poor  figure 
among  his  fellow-students,  now  appeared  in  as  fine 
clothes  as  any  of  them  could  boast  of;  and  when  asked 
by  his  parents,  on  going  home,  how  he  came  by  them, 
said  that  a  young  nobleman  of  his  school-fellows  had 
taken  a  violent  fancy  to  him,  and  made  him  a  present 
of  a  couple  of  his  suits.  Cartouche  the  elder,  good  man, 
went  to  thank  the  young  nobleman ;  but  none  such  could 
be  found,  and  young  Cartouche  disdained  to  give  any 
explanation  of  his  manner  of  gaining  the  money. 

Here,  again,  we  have  to  regret  and  remark  the  inad- 
vertence of  youth.  Cartouche  lost  a  hundred  louis — for 
what  ?  For  a  pot  of  honey  not  worth  a  couple  of  shillings. 
Had  he  fished  out  the  pieces,  and  replaced  the  pots  and 
the  honey,  he  might  have  been  safe,  and  a  respectable 
citizen  all  his  life  after.  The  principal  would  not  have 
dared  to  confess  the  loss  of  his  money,  and  did  not, 
openly;  but  he  vowed  vengeance  against  the  stealer  of 
his  sweetmeat,  and  a  rigid  search  was  made.  Cartouche, 
as  usual,  was  fixed  upon ;  and  in  the  tick  of  his  bed,  lo ! 
there  were  found  a  couple  of  empty  honey-pots !  From 
this  scrape  there  is  no  knowing  how  he  would  have 
escaped,  had  not  the  president  himself  been  a  little 
anxious  to  hush  the  matter  up;  and  accordingly,  young 
Cartouche  was  made  to  disgorge  the  residue  of  his  ill- 
gotten  gold  pieces,  old  Cartouche  made  up  the  deficiency, 
and  his  son  was  allowed  to  remain  unpunished— until 
the  next  time. 

This,  you  may  fancy,  was  not  very  long  in  coming; 
and  though  history  has  not  made  us  acquainted  with 
the  exact  crime  which  Louis  Dominic  next  committed. 


102  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

it  must  have  been  a  serious  one ;  for  Cartouche,  who  had 
borne  philosophically  all  the  whippings  and  punishments 
which  were  administered  to  him  at  college,  did  not  dare 
to  face  that  one  which  his  indignant  father  had  in  pickle 
for  him.  As  he  was  coming  home  from  school,  on  the 
first  day  after  his  crime,  when  he  received  permission  to 
go  abroad,  one  of  his  brothers,  who  was  on  the  look-out 
for  him,  met  him  at  a  short  distance  from  home,  and 
told  him  what  was  in  preparation;  which  so  frightened 
this  young  thief,  that  he  declined  returning  home  alto- 
gether, and  set  out  upon  the  wide  world  to  shift  for 
himself  as  he  could. 

Undoubted  as  his  genius  was,  he  had  not  arrived  at 
the  full  exercise  of  it,  and  his  gains  were  by  no  means 
equal  to  his  appetite.  In  whatever  professions  he  tried, 
— whether  he  joined  the  gipsies,  which  he  did, — whether 
he  picked  pockets  on  the  Pont  Neuf,  which  occupa- 
tion history  attributes  to  him, — poor  Cartouche  was  al- 
ways hungry.  Hungry  and  ragged,  he  wandered  from 
one  place  and  profession  to  another,  and  regretted  the 
honey-pots  at  Clermont,  and  the  comfortable  soup  and 
houilli  at  home. 

Cartouche  had  an  uncle,  a  kind  man,  who  was  a  mer- 
chant, and  had  dealings  at  Rouen.  One  day,  walking 
on  the  quays  of  that  city,  this  gentleman  saw  a  very 
miserable,  dirty,  starving  lad,  who  had  just  made  a 
pounce  upon  some  bones  and  turnip-peelings,  that  had 
been  flung  out  on  the  quay,  and  was  eating  them  as 
greedily  as  if  they  had  been  turkeys  and  truffles.  The 
worthy  man  examined  the  lad  a  little  closer.  O  heavens  I 
it  was  their  runaway  prodigal— it  was  little  Louis  Dom- 
inic! The  merchant  was  touched  by  his  case;  and  for- 
getting the  nightcaps,  the  honey-pots,  and  the  rags  and 


CARTOUCHE  103 

dirt  of  little  Louis,  took  him  to  his  arms,  and  kissed  and 
hugged  him  with  the  tenderest  affection.  Louis  kissed 
and  hugged  too,  and  blubbered  a  great  deal :  he  was  very 
repentant,  as  a  man  often  is  when  he  is  hungry;  and 
he  went  home  with  his  uncle,  and  his  peace  was  made; 
and  his  mother  got  him  new  clothes,  and  filled  his  belly, 
and  for  a  while  Louis  was  as  good  a  son  as  might  be. 

But  why  attempt  to  baulk  the  progress  of  genius? 
Louis's  was  not  to  be  kept  down.  He  was  sixteen  years 
of  age  by  this  time — a  smart,  lively  young  fellow,  and, 
what  is  more,  desperately  enamoured  of  a  lovely  washer- 
woman. To  be  successful  in  your  love,  as  Louis  knew, 
you  must  have  something  more  than  mere  flames  and 
sentiment; — a  washer,  or  any  other  woman,  cannot  live 
upon  sighs  only;  but  must  have  new  gowns  and  caps, 
and  a  necklace  every  now  and  then,  and  a  few  handker- 
chiefs and  silk  stockings,  and  a  treat  into  the  country 
or  to  the  play.  Now,  how  are  all  these  things  to  be  had 
without  money?  Cartouche  saw  at  once  that  it  was 
impossible ;  and  as  his  father  would  give  him  none,  he  was 
obliged  to  look  for  it  elsewhere.  He  took  to  his  old 
courses,  and  lifted  a  purse  here,  and  a  watch  there;  and 
found,  moreover,  an  accommodating  gentleman,  who 
took  the  wares  off  his  hands. 

This  gentleman  introduced  him  into  a  very  select  and 
agreeable  society,  in  which  Cartouche's  merit  began 
speedily  to  be  recognized,  and  in  which  he  learnt  how 
pleasant  it  is  in  life  to  have  friends  to  assist  one,  and 
how  much  may  be  done  by  a  proper  division  of  labour. 
M.  Cartouche,  in  fact,  formed  part  of  a  regular  com- 
pany or  gang  of  gentlemen,  who  were  associated  to- 
gether for  the  purpose  of  making  war  on  the  public  and 
the  law. 


104  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

Cartouche  had  a  lovely  young  sister,  who  was  to  be 
married  to  a  rich  young  gentleman  from  the  provinces. 
As  is  the  fashion  in  France,  the  parents  had  arranged 
the  match  among  themselves ;  and  the  young  people  had 
never  met  until  just  before  the  time  appointed  for  the 
marriage,  when  the  bridegroom  came  up  to  Paris  with 
his  title-deeds,  and  settlements,  and  money.  Now  there 
can  hardly  be  found  in  history  a  finer  instance  of  devo- 
tion than  Cartouche  now  exhibited.  He  went  to  his 
captain,  explained  the  matter  to  him,  and  actually,  for 
the  good  of  his  country,  as  it  were  ( the  thieves  might  be 
called  his  country),  sacrificed  his  sister's  husband's  prop- 
erty. Informations  were  taken,  the  house  of  the  bride- 
groom was  reconnoitred,  and,  one  night,  Cartouche,  in 
company  with  some  chosen  friends,  made  his  first  visit 
to  the  house  of  his  brother-in-law.  All  the  people  were 
gone  to  bed;  and,  doubtless,  for  fear  of  disturbing  the 
porter,  Cartouche  and  his  companions  spared  him  the 
trouble  of  opening  the  door,  by  ascending  quietly  at  the 
window.  They  arrived  at  the  room  where  the  bride- 
groom kept  his  great  chest,  and  set  industriously  to 
work,  filing  and  picking  the  locks  which  defended  the 
treasure. 

The  bridegroom  slept  in  the  next  room;  but  however 
tenderly  Cartouche  and  his  workmen  handled  their  tools, 
from  fear  of  disturbing  his  slumbers,  their  benevolent 
design  was  disappointed,  for  awaken  him  they  did;  and 
quietly  slipping  out  of  bed,  he  came  to  a  place  where  he 
had  a  complete  view  of  all  that  was  going  on.  He  did 
not  cry  out,  or  frighten  himself  sillily;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, contented  himself  with  watching  the  countenances 
of  the  robbers,  so  that  he  might  recognize  them  on  an- 
other occasion;  and,  though  an  avaricious  man,  he  did 


CARTOUCHE  105 

not  feel  the  slightest  anxiety  about  his  money-chest ;  for 
the  fact  is,  he  had  removed  all  the  cash  and  papers  the 
day  before. 

As  soon,  however,  as  they  had  broken  all  the  locks, 
and  found  the  nothing  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the 
chest,  he  shouted  with  such  a  loud  voice,  "  Here,  Thomas! 
— John! — officer! — keep  the  gate,  fire  at  the  rascals!" 
that  they,  incontinently  taking  fright,  skipped  nimbly 
out  of  window,  and  left  the  house  free. 

Cartouche,  after  this,  did  not  care  to  meet  his  brother- 
in-law,  but  eschewed  all  those  occasions  on  which  the 
latter  was  to  be  present  at  his  father's  house.  The 
evening  before  the  marriage  came;  and  then  his  father 
insisted  upon  his  appearance  among  the  other  rela- 
tives of  the  bride's  and  bridegroom's  families,  who  were 
all  to  assemble  and  make  merry.  Cartouche  was  obliged 
to  yield ;  and  brought  with  him  one  or  two  of  his  compan- 
ions, who  had  been,  by  the  way,  present  in  the  affair  of 
the  empty  money-boxes;  and  though  he  never  fancied 
that  there  was  any  danger  in  meeting  his  brother-in-law, 
for  he  had  no  idea  that  he  had  been  seen  on  the  night  of 
the  attack,  with  a  natural  modesty,  which  did  him  really 
credit,  he  kept  out  of  the  young  bridegroom's  sight  as 
much  as  he  could,  and  showed  no  desire  to  be  presented 
to  him.  At  supper,  however,  as  he  was  sneaking  mod- 
estly down  to  a  side-table,  his  father  shouted  after  him, 
"  PIo,  Dominic,  come  hither,  and  sit  opposite  to  your 
brother-in-law:  "  which  Dominic  did,  his  friends  follow- 
ing. The  bridegroom  pledged  him  very  gracefully  in 
a  bumper;  and  was  in  the  act  of  making  him  a  pretty 
speech,  on  the  honour  of  an  alliance  with  such  a  family, 
and  on  the  pleasures  of  brother-in-lawship  in  general, 
when,  looking  in  his  face— ye  gods!  he  saw  the  very  man 


106  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

who  had  been  filing  at  his  money-chest  a  few  nights  ago ! 
By  his  side,  too,  sat  a  couple  more  of  the  gang.  The 
poor  fellow  turned  deadly  pale  and  sick,  and,  setting 
bis  glass  down,  ran  quickly  out  of  the  room,  for  he 
thought  he  was  in  company  of  a  whole  gang  of  rob- 
bers. And  when  he  got  home,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the 
elder  Cartouche,  humbly  declining  any  connexion  with 
his  family. 

Cartouche  the  elder,  of  course,  angrily  asked  the 
reason  of  such  an  abrupt  dissolution  of  the  engagement ; 
and  then,  much  to  his  horror,  heard  of  his  eldest  son's 
doings.  "  You  would  not  have  me  marry  into  such  a 
family? "  said  the  ex-bridegroom.  And  old  Car- 
touche, an  honest  old  citizen,  confessed,  with  a  heavy 
heart,  that  he  would  not.  What  was  he  to  do  with  the 
lad?  He  did  not  like  to  ask  for  a  lettre  de  cachet, 
and  shut  him  up  in  the  Bastile.  He  determined  to 
give  him  a  year's  discipline  at  the  monastery  of  St. 
Lazare. 

But  how  to  catch  the  young  gentleman?  Old  Car- 
touche knew  that,  were  he  to  tell  his  son  of  the  scheme, 
the  latter  would  never  obey,  and,  therefore,  he  deter- 
mined to  be  very  cunning.  He  told  Dominic  that  he 
was  about  to  make  a  heavy  bargain  with  the  fathers, 
and  should  require  a  witness;  so  they  stepped  into  a 
carriage  together,  and  drove  unsuspectingly  to  the  Rue 
St.  Denis.  But,  when  they  arrived  near  the  convent. 
Cartouche  saw  several  ominous  figures  gathering  round 
the  coach,  and  felt  that  his  doom  was  sealed.  However, 
he  made  as  if  he  knew  nothing  of  the  conspiracy ;  and  the 
carriage  drew  up,  and  his  father  descended,  and,  bidding 
him  wait  for  a  minute  in  the  coach,  promised  to  return 
to  him.    Cartouche  looked  out;  on  the  other  side  of  the 


CARTOUCHE  107 

way  half-a-dozen  men  were  posted,  evidently  with  the 
intention  of  arresting  him. 

Cartouche  now  performed  a  great  and  celebrated 
stroke  of  genius,  which,  if  he  had  not  been  professionally 
employed  in  the  morning,  he  never  could  have  executed. 
He  had  in  his  pocket  a  piece  of  linen,  which  he  had  laid 
hold  of  at  the  door  of  some  shop,  and  from  which  he 
quickly  tore  three  suitable  stripes.  One  he  tied  round  his 
head,  after  the  fashion  of  a  nightcap ;  a  second  round  his 
waist,  like  an  apron ;  and  with  the  third  he  covered  his  hat, 
a  round  one,  with  a  large  brim.  His  coat  and  his  periwig 
he  left  behind  him  in  the  carriage ;  and  when  he  stepped 
out  from  it  (which  he  did  without  asking  the  coachman 
to  let  down  the  steps),  he  bore  exactly  the  appearance 
of  a  cook's  boy  carrying  a  dish ;  and  with  this  he  slipped 
through  the  exempts  quite  unsuspected,  and  bade  adieu 
to  the  Lazarists  and  his  honest  father,  who  came  out 
speedily  to  seek  him,  and  was  not  a  little  annoyed  to 
find  only  his  coat  and  wig. 

With  that  coat  and  wig.  Cartouche  left  home,  father, 
friends,  conscience,  remorse,  society,  behind  him.  He 
discovered  (like  a  great  number  of  other  philosophers 
and  poets,  when  they  have  committed  rascally  actions) 
that  the  world  was  all  going  wrong,  and  he  quar- 
relled with  it  outright.  One  of  the  first  stories  told  of 
the  illustrious  Cartouche,  when  he  became  professionally 
and  openly  a  robber,  redounds  highly  to  his  credit,  and 
shows  that  he  knew  how  to  take  advantage  of  the  occa- 
sion, and  how  much  he  had  improved  in  the  course  of 
a  very  few  years'  experience.  His  courage  and  inge- 
nuity were  vastly  admired  by  his  friend;  so  much  so, 
that,  one  day,  the  captain  of  the  band  thought  fit  to 
compliment  him,  and  vowed  that  when  he  (the  captain) 


108  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

died,  Cartouche  should  infallibly  be  called  to  the  com- 
mander-in-chief. This  conversation,  so  flattering  to  Car- 
touche, was  carried  on  between  the  two  gentlemen,  as 
they  were  walking,  one  night,  on  the  quays  by  the  side  of 
the  Seine.  Cartouche,  when  the  captain  made  the  last 
remark,  blushingly  protested  against  it,  and  pleaded 
his  extreme  youth  as  a  reason  why  his  comrades  could 
never  put  entire  trust  in  him.  "  Psha,  man!  "  said  the 
captain,  "  thy  youth  is  in  thy  favour;  thou  wilt  live  only 
the  longer  to  lead  thy  troops  to  victory.  As  for  strength, 
bravery,  and  cunning,  wert  thou  as  old  as  Methuselah, 
thou  couldst  not  be  better  provided  than  thou  art  now, 
at  eighteen."  What  was  the  reply  of  Monsieur  Car- 
touche? He  answered,  not  by  words,  but  by  actions. 
Drawing  his  knife  from  his  girdle,  he  instantly  dug  it 
into  the  captain's  left  side,  as  near  his  heart  as  possible ; 
and  then,  seizing  that  imprudent  commander,  precipi- 
tated him  violently  into  the  waters  of  the  Seine,  to  keep 
company  with  the  gudgeons  and  river-gods.  When  he 
returned  to  the  band,  and  recounted  how  the  captain 
had  basely  attempted  to  assassinate  him,  and  how  he,  on 
the  contrary,  had,  by  exertion  of  superior  skill,  over- 
come the  captain,  not  one  of  the  society  believed  a  word 
of  his  history;  but  they  elected  him  captain  forthwith. 
I  think  his  Excellency  Don  Rafael  Maroto,  the  pacifi- 
cator of  Spain,  is  an  amiable  character,  for  whom  history 
has  not  been  written  in  vain. 

Being  arrived  at  this  exalted  position,  there  is  no  end 
of  the  feats  which  Cartouche  performed;  and  his  band 
reached  to  such  a  pitch  of  glory,  that  if  there  had  been 
a  hundred  thousand,  instead  of  a  hundred  of  them,  who 
knows  but  that  a  new  and  popular  dynasty  might  not 
have  been  founded,  and  "  Louis  Dominic,  premier  Em- 


CARTOUCHE  109 

pereur  des  Fran^ais,"  might  have  performed  innumer- 
able glorious  actions,  and  fixed  himself  ill  the  hearts  of 
his  people,  just  as  other  monarchs  have  done,  a  hundred 
years  after  Cartouche's  death. 

A  story  similar  to  the  above,  and  equally  moral,  is  that 
of  Cartouche,  who,  in  company  with  two  other  gentle- 
men, robbed  the  coche,  or  packet-boat,  from  Melun, 
where  they  took  a  good  quantity  of  booty, — making  the 
passengers  lie  down  on  the  decks,  and  rifling  them  at 
leisure.  "  This  money  will  be  but  very  little  among 
three,"  whispered  Cartouche  to  his  neighbour,  as  the 
three  conquerors  were  making  merry  over  their  gains; 
"if  you  were  but  to  pull  the  trigger  of  your  pistol  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  your  comrade's  ear,  perhaps  it 
might  go  oiF,  and  then  there  would  be  but  two  of  us  to 
share."  Strangely  enough,  as  Cartouche  said,  the  pistol 
did  go  off,  and  No.  3  perished.  "  Give  him  another 
ball,"  said  Cartouche;  and  another  was  fired  into  him. 
But  no  sooner  had  Cartouche's  comrade  discharged  both 
his  pistols,  than  Cartouche  himself,  seized  with  a  furious 
indignation,  drew  his:  "  Learn,  monster,"  cried  he,  "  not 
to  be  so  greedy  of  gold,  and  perish,  the  victim  of  thy 
disloyalty  and  avarice !  "  So  Cartouche  slew  the  second 
robber ;  and  there  is  no  man  in  Europe  who  can  say  that 
the  latter  did  not  merit  well  his  punishment. 

I  could  fill  volumes,  and  not  mere  sheets  of  paper, 
with  tales  of  the  triumphs  of  Cartouche  and  his  band; 

how  he  robbed  the  Countess  of  O ,  going  to  Dijon,  in 

her  coach,  and  how  the  Countess  fell  in  love  with  him, 
and  was  faithful  to  him  ever  after;  how,  when  the  lieu- 
tenant of  police  offered  a  reward  of  a  hundred  pistoles 
to  any  man  who  would  bring  Cartouche  before  him,  a 
noble  Marquess,  in  a  coach  and  six,  drove  up  to  the  hotel 


no  THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 

of  the  police;  and  the  noble  Marquess,  desiring  to  see 
Monsieur  de  la  Reynie,  on  matters  of  the  highest  mo- 
ment, alone,  the  latter  introduced  him  into  his  private 
cabinet;  and  how,  when  there,  the  Marquess  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  long,  curiously  shaped  dagger:  "  Look  at 
this.  Monsieur  de  la  Reynie,"  said  he;  "  this  dagger  is 
poisoned ! " 

"  Is  it  possible?  "  said  M.  de  la  Reynie. 

"  A  prick  of  it  would  do  for  any  man,"  said  the  Mar- 
quess. 

"  You  don't  say  so!  "  said  M.  de  la  Reynie. 

"  I  do,  though ;  and,  what  is  more,"  says  the  Marquess, 
in  a  terrible  voice,  "  if  you  do  not  instantly  lay  yourself 
flat  on  the  ground,  with  your  face  towards  it,  and  your 
hands  crossed  over  your  back,  or  if  you  make  the  slightest 
noise  or  cry,  I  will  stick  this  poisoned  dagger  between 
your  ribs,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Cartouche !  " 

At  the  sound  of  this  dreadful  name,  M.  de  la  Reynie 
sunk  incontinently  down  on  his  stomach,  and  submitted 
to  be  carefully  gagged  and  corded;  after  which  Mon- 
sieur Cartouche  laid  his  hands  upon  all  the  money  which 
was  kept  in  the  lieutenant's  cabinet.  Alas!  and  alas! 
many  a  stout  bailiff,  and  many  an  honest  fellow  of  a  spy, 
went,  for  that  day,  without  his  pay  and  his  victuals. 

There  is  a  story  that  Cartouche  once  took  the  diligence 
to  Lille,  and  found  in  it  a  certain  Abbe  Potter,  who  was 
full  of  indignation  against  this  monster  of  a  Cartouche, 
and  said  that  when  he  went  back  to  Paris,  which  he  pro- 
posed to  do  in  about  a  fortnight,  he  should  give  the  lieu- 
tenant of  police  some  information,  which  would  infal- 
libly lead  to  the  scoundrel's  capture.  But  poor  Potter 
was  disappointed  in  his  designs ;  for,  before  he  could  ful- 
fil them,  he  was  made  the  victim  of  Cartouche's  cruelty. 


CARTOUCHE  111 

A  letter  came  to  the  lieutenant  of  police,  to  state  that 
Cartouche  had  travelled  to  Lille,  in  company  with  the 
Abbe  de  Potter,  of  that  town;  that,  on  the  reverend 
gentleman's  return  towards  Paris,  Cartouche  had  way- 
laid him,  murdered  him,  taken  his  papers,  and  would 
come  to  Paris  himself,  bearing  the  name  and  clothes  of 
the  unfortunate  Abbe,  by  the  Lille  coach,  on  such  a  day. 
The  Lille  coach  arrived,  was  surrounded  by  police 
agents;  the  monster  Cartouche  was  there,  sure  enough, 
in  the  Abbe's  guise.  He  was  seized,  bound,*  flung  into 
prison,  brought  out  to  be  examined,  and,  on  examination, 
found  to  be  no  other  than  the  Abbe  Potter  himself!  It 
is  pleasant  to  read  thus  of  the  relaxations  of  great  men, 
and  find  them  condescending  to  joke  like  the  meanest 
of  us. 

Another  diligence  adventure  is  recounted  of  the  fa- 
mous Cartouche.  It  happened  that  he  met,  in  the  coach, 
a  young  and  lovely  lady,  clad  in  widow's  weeds,  and 
bound  to  Paris,  with  a  couple  of  servants.  The  poor 
thing  was  the  widow  of  a  rich  old  gentleman  of  Mar- 
seilles, and  was  going  to  the  capital  to  arrange  with  her 
lawyers,  and  to  settle  her  husband's  will.  The  Count  de 
Grinche  (for  so  her  fellow-passenger  was  called)  was 
quite  as  candid  as  the  pretty  widow  had  been,  and  stated 
that  he  was  a  captain  in  the  regiment  of  Nivernois ;  that 
he  was  going  to  Paris  to  buy  a  colonelcy,  which  his 
relatives,  the  Duke  de  Bouillon,  the  Prince  de  Mont- 
morency, the  Commandeur  de  la  Tremoille,  with  all  their 
interest  at  court,  could  not  fail  to  procure  for  him.  To 
be  short,  in  the  course  of  the  four  days'  journey,  the 
Count  Louis  Dominic  de  Grinche  played  his  cards  so 
well,  that  the  poor  little  widow  half  forgot  her  late 
husband ;  and  her  eyes  glistened  with  tears  as  the  Count 


112  THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 

kissed  her  hand  at  parting— at  parting,  he  hoped,  only 
for  a  few  hours. 

Day  and  night  the  insinuating  Count  followed  her; 
and  when,  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
tete-a-tete,  he  plunged,  one  morning,  suddenly  on  his 
knees,  and  said,  "  Leonora,  do  you  love  me?  "  the  poor 
thing  heaved  the  gentlest,  tenderest,  sweetest  sigh  in  the 
world;  and,  sinking  her  blushing  head  on  his  shoulder, 
whispered,  "Oh,  Dominic,  je  t'aime!  All!"  said  she, 
"  how  noble  is  it  of  my  Dominic  to  take  me  with  the 
little  I  have,  and  he  so  rich  a  nobleman!  "  The  fact  is, 
the  old  Baron's  titles  and  estates  had  passed  away  to  his 
nephews;  his  dowager  was  only  left  with  three  hundred 
thousand  livres,  in  rentes  sur  Fetat^—a  handsome  sum, 
but  nothing  to  compare  to  the  rent-roll  of  Count  Dom- 
inic, Count  de  la  Grinche,  Seigneur  de  la  Haute  Pigre, 
Baron  de  la  Bigorne;  he  had  estates  and  wealth  which 
might  authorize  him  to  aspire  to  the  hand  of  a  duchess, 
at  least. 

The  unfortunate  widow  never  for  a  moment  suspected 
the  cruel  trick  that  was  about  to  be  played  on  her;  and, 
at  the  request  of  her  affianced  husband,  sold  out  her 
money,  and  realized  it  in  gold,  to  be  made  over  to  him 
on  the  day  when  the  contract  was  to  be  signed.  The  day 
arrived ;  and,  according  to  the  custom  in  France,  the  re- 
lations of  both  parties  attended.  The  widow's  relatives, 
though  respectable,  were  not  of  the  first  nobility,  being 
chiefly  persons  of  the  finance  or  the  robe:  there  was  the 
president  of  the  court  of  Arras,  and  his  lady ;  a  farmer- 
general;  a  judge  of  a  court  of  Paris;  and  other  such 
grave  and  respectable  people.  As  for  Monsieur  le 
Comte  de  la  Grinche,  he  was  not  bound  for  names ;  and, 
having  the  whole  peerage  to  choose  from,  brought  a  host 


Cartouche 


CARTOUCHE  113 

of  Montmorencies,  Crequis,  De  la  Tours,  and  Guises  at 
his  back.  His  homme  d'affaires  brought  his  papers  in 
a  sack,  and  displayed  the  plans  of  his  estates,  and  the 
titles  of  his  glorious  ancestry.  The  widow's  lawyers 
had  her  money  in  sacks;  and  between  the  gold  on  the 
one  side,  and  the  parchments  on  the  other,  lay  the  con- 
tract which  was  to  make  the  widow's  three  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  the  property  of  the  Count  de  Grinche.  The 
Count  de  la  Grinche  was  just  about  to  sign;  when  the 
Marshal  de  Villars,  stepping  up  to  him,  said,  "  Captain, 
do  you  know  who  the  president  of  the  court  of  Arras, 
yonder,  is?  It  is  old  Manasseh,  the  fence,  of  Brussels. 
I  pawned  a  gold  watch  to  him,  which  I  stole  from  Cado- 
gan,  when  I  was  with  Malbrook's  army  in  Flanders." 

Here  the  Due  de  la  Roche  Guyon  came  forward,  very 
much  alarmed.  "  Run  me  through  the  body!  "  said  his 
Grace,  "  but  the  comptroller-general's  lady,  there,  is 
no  other  than  that  old  hag  of  a  Margoton  who  keeps 
the — "    Here  the  Due  de  la  Roche  Guyon's  voice  fell. 

Cartouche  smiled  graciously,  and  walked  up  to  the 
table.  He  took  up  one  of  the  widow's  fifteen  thousand 
gold  pieces; — it  was  as  pretty  a  bit  of  copper  as  you 
could  wish  to  see.  "  My  dear,"  said  he,  politely,  "  there 
is  some  mistake  here,  and  this  business  had  better  stop." 

*'  Count!  "  gasped  the  poor  widow. 

"Count  be  hanged!"  answered  the  bridegroom, 
sternly;  "  my  name  is  Cartouche!  " 


ON  SOME  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE 

NOVELS 

WITH  A  PLEA  FOR  ROMANCES  IN  GENERAL 

THERE  is  an  old  story  of  a  Spanish  court  painter, 
who,  being  pressed  for  money,  and  having  re- 
ceived a  piece  of  damask,  which  he  was  to  wear  in  a  state 
procession,  pawned  the  damask,  and  appeared,  at  the 
show,  dressed  out  in  some  very  fine  sheets  of  paper,  which 
he  had  painted  so  as  exactly  to  resemble  silk.  Nay,  his 
coat  looked  so  much  richer  than  the  doublets  of  all  the 
rest,  that  the  Emperor  Charles,  in  whose  honour  the  pro- 
cession was  given,  remarked  the  painter,  and  so  his  de- 
ceit was  found  out. 

I  have  often  thought  that,  in  respect  of  sham  and  real 
histories,  a  similar  fact  may  be  noticed;  the  sham  story 
appearing  a  great  deal  more  agreeable,  life-like,  and 
natural  than  the  true  one:  and  all  who,  from  laziness  as 
well  as  principle,  are  inclined  to  follow  the  easy  and 
comfortable  study  of  novels,  may  console  themselves 
with  the  notion  that  they  are  studying  matters  quite  as 
important  as  history,  and  that  their  favourite  duodecimos 
are  as  instructive  as  the  biggest  quartos  in  the  world. 

If  then,  ladies,  the  big-wigs  begin  to  sneer  at  the 
course  of  our  studies,  calling  our  darling  romances  fool- 
ish, trivial,  noxious  to  the  mind,  enervators  of  intellect, 
fathers  of  idleness,  and  what  not,  let  us  at  once  take  a 
high  ground,  and  say,— Go  you  to  your  own  employ- 
ments, and  to  such  dull  studies  as  you  fancy ;  go  and  bob 

lU 


FRENCH    FASHIONABLE    NOVELS   115 

for  triangles,  from  the  Pons  Asinorum;  go  enjoy  your 
dull  black  draughts  of  metaphysics;  go  fumble  over 
history  books,  and  dissert  upon  Herodotus  and  Livy; 
our  histories  are,  perhaps,  as  true  as  yours;  our  drink 
is  the  brisk  sparkling  champagne  drink,  from  the  presses 
of  Colburn,  Bentley  and  Co.;  our  walks  are  over  such 
sunshiny  pleasure-grounds  as  Scott  and  Shakspeare 
have  laid  out  for  us;  and  if  our  dwellings  are  castles  in 
the  air,  we  find  them  excessively  splendid  and  commodi- 
ous;— be  not  you  envious  because  you  have  no  wings  to 
fly  thither.  Let  the  big-wigs  despise  us ;  such  contempt 
of  their  neighbours  is  the  custom  of  all  barbarous  tribes ; 
—witness,  the  learned  Chinese:  Tippoo  Sultaun  declared 
that  there  were  not  in  all  Europe  ten  thousand  men: 
the  Sklavonic  hordes,  it  is  said,  so  entitled  themselves 
from  a  word  in  their  jargon,  which  signifies  "  to  speak;  " 
the  ruffians  imagining  that  they  had  a  monopoly  of  this 
agreeable  faculty,  and  that  all  other  nations  were  dumb. 

Not  so:  others  may  be  deaf;  but  the  novelist  has  a 
loud,  eloquent,  instructive  language,  though  his  enemies 
may  despise  or  deny  it  ever  so  much.  What  is  more,  one 
could,  perhaps,  meet  the  stoutest  historian  on  his  own 
ground,  and  argue  with  him ;  showing  that  sham  histories 
were  much  truer  than  real  histories;  which  are,  in  fact, 
mere  contemptible  catalogues  of  names  and  places,  that 
can  have  no  moral  effect  upon  the  reader. 

As  thus: — 

Julius  Caesar  beat  Pompey,  at  Pharsalia. 

The  Duke  of  Marlborough  beat  Marshal  Tallard,  at  Blenheim. 

The  Constable  of  Bourbon  beat  Francis  the  First,  at  Pavia. 

And  what  have  we  here? — so  many  names,  simply.    Sup- 
pose Pharsalia  had  been,  at  that  mysterious  period  when 


116  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

names  were  given,  called  Pavia ;  and  that  Julius  Ceesar's 
family  name  had  been  John  Churchill; — the  fact  would 
have  stood,  in  history,  thus: — 

"  Pompey  ran  away  from  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  at  Pavia." 

And  why  not? — we  should  have  been  just  as  wise.  Or  it 
might  be  stated,  that — 

"  The  tenth  legion  charged  the  French  infantry  at  Blenheim ; 
and  Cffisar,  writing  home  to  his  mamma,  said,  '  Madame,  tout  est 
perdu  fors  Vhonncur.^  " 

What  a  contemptible  science  this  is,  then,  about  which 
quartos  are  written,  and  sixty-volumed  Biographies 
Universelles,  and  Lardner's  Cabinet  Cyclopaedias,  and 
the  like!  the  facts  are  nothing  in  it,  the  names  every- 
thing ;  and  a  gentleman  might  as  well  improve  his  mind 
by  learning  Walker's  "  Gazetteer,"  or  getting  by  heart 
a  fifty-years-old  edition  of  the  "  Court  Guide." 

Having  thus  disposed  of  the  historians,  let  us  come  to 
the  point  in  question — the  novelists. 

On  the  title-page  of  these  volumes  the  reader  has, 
doubtless,  remarked,  that  among  the  pieces  introduced, 
some  are  announced  as  "  copies  "  and  "  compositions." 
Many  of  the  histories  have,  accordingly,  been  neatly 
stolen  from  the  collections  of  French  authors  (and  mu- 
tilated, according  to  the  old  saying,  so  that  their  owners 
should  not  know  them)  ;  and,  for  compositions,  we  in- 
tend to  favour  the  public  with  some  studies  of  French 
modern  works,  that  have  not  as  yet,  we  believe,-  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  English  public. 

Of  such  works  there  appear  many  hundreds  yearly, 


■^  2  x; 

p  >=  B 

<I  55  W 

o  w  h 
o 

w 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  117 

as  may  be  seen  by  the  French  catalogues ;  but  the  writer 
has  not  so  much  to  do  with  works  poHtical,  philosophical, 
historical,  metaphysical,  scientifical,  theological,  as  with 
those  for  which  he  has  been  putting  forward  a  plea 
—novels,  namely;  on  which  he  has  expended  a  great 
deal  of  time  and  study.  And  passing  from  novels  in 
general  to  French  novels,  let  us  confess,  with  much  hu- 
miliation, that  we  borrow  from  these  stories  a  great  deal 
more  knowledge  of  French  society  than  from  our  own 
personal  observation  we  ever  can  hope  to  gain:  for,  let 
a  gentleman  who  has  dwelt  two,  four,  or  ten  years  in 
Paris  (and  has  not  gone  thither  for  the  purpose  of 
making  a  book,  when  three  weeks  are  sufficient)  —let 
an  English  gentleman  say,  at  the  end  of  any  given 
period,  how  much  he  knows  of  French  society,  how  many 
French  houses  he  has  entered,  and  how  many  French 
friends  he  has  made? — He  has  enjoyed,  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  say— 

At  the  English  Ambassador's,  so  many  soirees. 

At  houses  to  which  he  has  brought  letters,  so  many  tea-parties. 

At  cafes,  so  many  dinners. 

At  French  private  houses,  say  three  dinners,  and  very  lucky  too. 

He  has,  we  say,  seen  an  immense  number  of  wax  can- 
dles, cups  of  tea,  glasses  of  orgeat,  and  French  people,  in 
best  clothes,  enjoying  the  same;  but  intimacy  there  is 
none;  we  see  but  the  outsides  of  the  people.  Year  by 
year  we  live  in  France,  and  grow  grey,  and  see  no 
more.  We  play  ecarte  with  Monsieur  de  Trefle  every 
night;  but  what  know  we  of  the  heart  of  the  man— of 
the  inward  ways,  thoughts,  and  customs  of  Trefle?  If 
we  have  good  legs,  and  love  the  amusement,  we  dance 
with  Countess  Flicflac,  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays,  ever 


118  THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 

since  the  Peace;  and  how  far  are  we  advanced  in  ac- 
quaintance with  her  since  we  first  twirled  her  round  a 
room?  We  know  her  velvet  gown,  and  her  diamonds 
(about  three-fourths  of  them  are  sham,  by  the  way)  ; 
we  know  her  smiles,  and  her  simpers,  and  her  rouge— but 
no  more:  she  may  turn  into  a  kitchen  wench  at  twelve 
on  Thursday  night,  for  aught  we  know;  her  voiture,  a 
pumpkin;  and  her  geiis,  so  many  rats:  but  the  real, 
rougeless,  intime  Fhcflac,  we  know  not.  This  privilege 
is  granted  to  no  Englishman:  we  may  understand  the 
French  language  as  well  as  Monsieur  de  Levizac,  but 
never  can  penetrate  into  Flicflac's  confidence:  our  ways 
are  not  her  ways;  our  manners  of  thinking,  not  hers: 
when  we  say  a  good  thing,  in  the  course  of  the  night,  we 
are  wondrous  lucky  and  pleased;  Flicflac  will  trill  you 
off  fifty  in  ten  minutes,  and  wonder  at  the  hetise  of  the 
Briton,  who  has  never  a  word  to  say.  We  are  married, 
and  have  fourteen  children,  and  would  just  as  soon  make 
love  to  the  Pope  of  Rome  as  to  any  one  but  our  own 
wife.  If  you  do  not  make  love  to  Flicflac,  from  the 
day  after  her  marriage  to  the  day  she  reaches  sixty,  she 
thinks  you  a  fool.  We  won't  play  at  ecarte  with  Trefle 
on  Sunday  nights;  and  are  seen  walking,  about  one 
o'clock  (accompanied  by  fourteen  red-haired  children, 
with  fourteen  gleaming  prayer-books),  away  from  the 
church.  "Grand  Dieu!"  cries  Trefle,  "is  that  man 
mad?  He  won't  play  at  cards  on  a  Sunday;  he  goes  to 
church  on  a  Sunday:  he  has  fourteen  children!  " 

Was  ever  Frenchman  known  to  do  likewise?  Pass 
we  on  to  our  argument,  which  is,  that  with  our  English 
notions  and  moral  and  physical  constitution,  it  is  quite 
impossible  that  we  should  become  intimate  with  our 
brisk  neighbours ;  and  when  such  authors  as  Lady  Mor- 


FRENCH    FASHIONABLE    NOVELS  119 

gan  and  Mrs.  Trollope,  having  frequented  a  certain 
number  of  tea-parties  in  the  French  capital,  begin  to 
prattle  about  French  manners  and  men, — with  all  re- 
spect for  the  talents  of  those  ladies,  we  do  believe  their  in- 
formation not  to  be  worth  a  sixpence;  they  speak  to  us, 
not  of  men,  but  of  tea-parties.  Tea-parties  are  the  same 
all  the  world  over;  with  the  exception  that,  with  the 
French,  there  are  more  lights  and  prettier  dresses;  and 
with  us,  a  mighty  deal  more  tea  in  the  pot. 

There  is,  however,  a  cheap  and  delightful  way  of  trav- 
elling, that  a  man  may  perform  in  his  easy-chair,  without 
expense  of  passports  or  post-boys.  On  the  wings  of  a 
novel,  from  the  next  circulating  library,  he  sends  his 
imagination  a-gadding,  and  gains  acquaintance  with 
people  and  manners  whom  he  could  not  hope  otherwise 
to  know.  Twopence  a  volume  bears  us  whithersoever  we 
will;— back  to  Ivanhoe  and  Coeur  de  Lion,  or  to  Waver- 
ley  and  the  Young  Pretender,  along  with  Walter  Scott ; 
up  to  the  heights  of  fashion  with  the  charming  enchanters 
of  the  silver-fork  school ;  or,  better  still,  to  the  snug  inn- 
parlour,  or  the  jovial  tap-room,  with  ]VIr.  Pickwick 
and  his  faithful  Sancho  Weller.  I  am  sure  that  a  man 
who,  a  hundred  years  hence,  should  sit  down  to  write  the 
history  of  our  time,  would  do  wrong  to  put  that 
great  contemporary  history  of  "  Pickwick  "  aside  as  a 
frivolous  work.  It  contains  true  character  under  false 
names;  and,  like  "  Roderick  Random,"  an  inferior  work, 
and  "  Tom  Jones  "  (one  that  is  immeasurably  superior) , 
gives  us  a  better  idea  of  the  state  and  ways  of  the  people 
than  one  could  gather  from  any  more  pompous  or  au- 
thentic histories. 

We  have,  therefore,  introduced  into  these  volumes  one 
or  two  short  reviews  of  French  fiction  writers,  of  par- 


120  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

ticular  classes,  whose  Paris  sketches  may  give  the  reader 
some  notion  of  manners  in  that  capital.  If  not  original, 
at  least  the  drawings  are  accurate ;  for,  as  a  Frenchman 
might  have  lived  a  thousand  years  in  England,  and 
never  could  have  written  "  Pickwick,"  an  Englishman 
cannot  hope  to  give  a  good  description  of  the  inward 
thoughts  and  ways  of  his  neighbours. 

To  a  person  inclined  to  study  these,  in  that  light  and 
amusing  fashion  in  which  the  novelist  treats  them,  let  us 
recommend  the  works  of  a  new  writer.  Monsieur  de  Ber- 
nard, who  has  painted  actual  manners,  without  those 
monstrous  and  terrible  exaggerations  in  which  late 
French  writers  have  indulged;  and  who,  if  he  occasion- 
ally wounds  the  English  sense  of  propriety  (as  what 
French  man  or  woman  alive  will  not?),  does  so  more  by 
slighting  than  by  outraging  it,  as,  with  their  laboured 
descriptions  of  all  sorts  of  imaginable  wickedness,  some 
of  his  brethren  of  the  press  have  done.  M.  de  Bernard's 
characters  are  men  and  women  of  genteel  society — ras- 
cals enough,  but  living  in  no  state  of  convulsive  crimes; 
and  we  follow  him  in  his  lively,  malicious  account  of 
their  manners,  without  risk  of  lighting  upon  any  such 
horrors  as  Balzac  or  Dumas  has  provided  for  us. 

Let  us  give  an  instance : — it  is  from  the  amusing  novel 
called  "  Les  Ailes  d'Icare,"  and  contains  what  is  to  us 
quite  a  new  picture  of  a  French  fashionable  rogue.  The 
fashions  will  change  in  a  few  years,  and  the  rogue,  of 
course,  with  them.  Let  us  catch  this  delightful  fellow 
ere  he  flies.  It  is  impossible  to  sketch  the  character  in 
a  more  sparkling,  gentlemanlike  way  than  M.  de  Ber- 
nard's ;  but  such  light  things  are  very  difficult  of  transla- 
tion, and  the  sparkle  sadly  evaporates  during  the  process 
of  decanting. 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  121 

A  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  LETTER 

*' My  dear  Victor— It  is  six  in  the  morning:  I  have 
just  come  from  the  English  Ambassador's  ball,  and 
as  my  plans  for  the  day  do  not  admit  of  my  sleeping, 
I  write  you  a  line;  for,  at  this  moment,  saturated  as  I 
am  with  the  enchantments  of  a  fairy  night,  all  other 
pleasures  would  be  too  wearisome  to  keep  me  awake, 
except  that  of  conversing  with  you.  Indeed,  were  I 
not  to  write  to  you  now,  when  should  I  find  the  possibil- 
ity of  doing  so?  Time  flies  here  with  such  a  frightful 
rapidity,  my  pleasures  and  my  affairs  whirl  onwards 
together  in  such  a  torrentuous  galopade,  that  I  am  com- 
pelled to  seize  occasion  by  the  forelock ;  for  each  moment 
has  its  imperious  employ.  Do  not  then  accuse  me  of 
negligence:  if  my  correspondence  has  not  always  that 
regularity  which  I  would  fain  give  it,  attribute  the  fault 
solely  to  the  whirlwind  in  which  I  live,  and  which  carries 
me  hither  and  thither  at  its  will. 

"  However,  you  are  not  the  only  person  with  whom  I 
am  behindhand:  I  assure  you,  on  the  contrary,  that  you 
are  one  of  a  very  numerous  and  fashionable  company, 
to  whom,  towards  the  discharge  of  my  debts,  I  propose 
to  consecrate  four  hours  to-day.  I  give  you  the  prefer- 
ence to  all  the  world,  even  to  the  lovely  Duchess  of  San 
Severino,  a  delicious  Italian,  whom,  for  my  special  hap- 
piness, I  met  last  summer  at  the  Waters  of  Aix.  I  have 
also  a  most  important  negotiation  to  conclude  with  one 
of  our  Princes  of  Finance:  but  nimporte,  I  commence 
with  thee:  friendship  before  love  or  money— friendship 
before  everything.  My  despatches  concluded,  I  am  en- 
gaged to  ride  with  the  Marquis  de  Grigneure,  the  Comte 
de  Castijars,  and  Lord  Cobham,  in  order  that  we  may 


122  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

recover,  for  a  breakfast  at  the  Rocher  de  Cancale  that 
Grigneure  has  lost,  the  appetite  which  we  all  of  us  so  cru- 
elly abused  last  night  at  the  Ambassador's  gala.  On  my 
honour,  my  dear  fellow,  everybody  was  of  a  caprice  pres- 
tigieucc  and  a  comfortable  miroholant.  Fancy,  for  a 
banquet-hall,  a  royal  orangery  hung  with  white  damask ; 
the  boxes  of  the  shrubs  transformed  into  so  many  side- 
boards; lights  gleaming  through  the  foliage;  and,  for 
guests,  the  loveliest  women  and  most  brilliant  cavaliers 
of  Paris.  Orleans  and  Nemours  were  there,  dancing  and 
eating  like  simple  mortals.  In  a  word,  Albion  did  the 
thing  very  handsomely,  and  I  accord  it  my  esteem. 

"  Here  I  pause,  to  call  for  my  valet-de-chambre,  and 
call  for  tea ;  for  my  head  is  heavy,  and  I've  no  time  for 
a  headache.  In  serving  me,  this  rascal  of  a  Frederic 
has  broken  a  cup,  true  Japan,  upon  my  honour— the 
rogue  does  nothing  else.  Yesterday,  for  instance,  did 
he  not  thump  me  prodigiously,  by  letting  fall  a  goblet, 
after  Cellini,  of  which  the  carving  alone  cost  me  three 
hundred  francs?  I  must  positively  put  the  wretch  out 
of  doors,  to  ensure  the  safety  of  my  furniture;  and  in 
consequence  of  this,  Eneas,  an  audacious  young  negro, 
in  whom  wisdom  hath  not  waited  for  years — Eneas,  my 
groom,  I  say,  will  probably  be  elevated  to  the  post  of 
valet-de-chambre.  But  where  was  I?  I  think  I  was 
speaking  to  you  of  an  oyster  breakfast,  to  which,  on 
our  return  from  the  Park  (du  Bois),  a  company  of 
pleasant  rakes  are  invited.  After  quitting  Borel's,  we 
propose  to  adjourn  to  the  Barriere  du  Combat,  where 
Lord  Cobham  proposes  to  try  some  bull-dogs,  which  he 
has  brought  over  from  England— one  of  these,  O 'Cou- 
ncil, (Lord  Cobham  is  a  Tory,)  has  a  face  in  which  I 
place  much  confidence:  I  have  a  bet  of  ten  louis  with 


FRENCH    FASHIOXABLE    NOVELS  123 

Castijars  on  the  strength  of  it.  After  the  fight,  we  shall 
make  our  accustomed  appearance  at  the  '  Cafe  de  Paris,' 
(the  only  place,  by  the  way,  where  a  man  who  respects 
himself  may  be  seen,)  — and  then  away  with  frocks  and 
spurs,  and  on  with  our  dress-coats  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  go  doze  for  a  couple 
of  hours  at  the  Opera,  where  my  presence  is  indispensa- 
ble; for  Coralie,  a  charming  creature,  passes  this  even- 
ing from  the  rank  of  the  rats  to  that  of  the  tigers^  in  a 
pas-de-troiSj,  and  our  box  patronizes  her.  After  the 
Opera,  I  must  show  my  face  at  two  or  three  salons  in 
the  Faubourg  St.  Honore;  and  having  thus  performed 
mj^  duties  to  the  world  of  fashion,  I  return  to  the  ex- 
ercise of  my  rights  as  a  member  of  the  Carnival.  At 
two  o'clock  all  the  world  meets  at  the  Theatre  Venta- 
dour:  lions  and  tigers — the  whole  of  our  menagerie,  will 
be  present.  Evoe!  off  we  go!  roaring  and  bounding 
Bacchanal  and  Saturnal;  'tis  agreed  that  we  shall  be 
everything  that  is  low.  To  conclude,  we  sup  with  Casti- 
jars, the  most '  furiously  dishevelled  '  orgy  that  ever  was 
known." 

<L'  ,\l/,  Ak  ik  Afe 

The  rest  of  the  letter  is  on  matters  of  finance,  equally 
curious  and  instructive.  But  pause  we  for  the  present, 
to  consider  the  fashionable  part:  and  caricature  as  it  is, 
we  have  an  accurate  picture  of  the  actual  French  dandy. 
Bets,  breakfasts,  riding,  dinners  at  the  "  Cafe  de  Paris," 
and  delirious  Carnival  balls :  the  animal  goes  through  all 
such  frantic  pleasures  at  the  season  that  precedes  Lent. 
He  has  a  wondrous  respect  for  English  "  gentlemen- 
sportsmen;  "  he  imitates  their  clubs— their  love  of  horse- 
flesh :  he  calls  his  palef renier  a  groom,  wears  blue  bird's- 
eye    neckcloths,    sports    his    pink    out    hunting,    rides 


124  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

steeplechases,  and  has  his  Jockey  Club.  The  "  tigers  and 
lions  "  alluded  to  in  the  report  have  been  borrowed  from 
our  own  country,  and  a  great  compliment  is  it  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Bernard,  the  writer  of  the  above  amusing  sketch, 
that  he  has  such  a  knowledge  of  English  names  and 
things,  as  to  give  a  Tory  lord  the  decent  title  of  Lord 
Cobham,  and  to  call  his  dog  O'Connell.  Paul  de  Kock 
calls  an  English  nobleman,  in  one  of  his  last  novels,  Lord 
Boulingrog,  and  appears  vastly  delighted  at  the  verisi- 
militude of  the  title. 

For  the  "  rugisseinents  et  hondissements,  hacchanale 
et  saturnale,  galop  infernalj  ronde  du  sahhat  tout  le 
tre7nblement''  these  words  give  a  most  clear,  untrans- 
latable idea  of  the  Carnival  ball.  A  sight  more  hideous 
can  hardly  strike  a  man's  eye.  I  was  present  at  one 
where  the  four  thousand  guests  whirled  screaming,  reel- 
ing, roaring,  ovit  of  the  ball-room  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore, 
and  tore  down  to  the  column  in  the  Place  Vendome, 
round  which  they  went  shrieking  their  own  music,  twenty 
miles  an  hour,  and  so  tore  madly  back  again.  Let  a 
man  go  alone  to  such  a  place  of  amusement,  and  the 
sight  for  him  is  perfectly  terrible:  the  horrid  frantic 
gaiety  of  the  place  puts  him  in  mind  more  of  the  merri- 
ment of  demons  than  of  men :  bang,  bang,  drums,  trum- 
pets, chairs,  pistol-shots,  pour  out  of  the  orchestra, 
which  seems  as  mad  as  the  dancers;  whiz,  a  whirlwind 
of  paint  and  patches,  all  the  costumes  under  the  sun,  all 
the  ranks  in  the  empire,  all  the  he  and  she  scoundrels  of 
the  capital,  writhed  and  twisted  together,  rush  by  you; 
if  a  man  falls,  woe  be  to  him:  two  thousand  screaming 
menads  go  trampling  over  his  carcass :  they  have  neither 
power  nor  will  to  stop. 

A  set  of  Malays  drunk  with  bhang   and  running 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  125 

amuck,  a  company  of  howling  dervishes,  may  possibly, 
in  our  own  day,  go  through  similar  frantic  vagaries ;  but 
I  doubt  if  any  civilized  European  people  but  the  French 
would  permit  and  enjoy  such  scenes.  Yet  our  neigh- 
bours see  little  shame  in  them;  and  it  is  very  true  that 
men  of  all  classes,  high  and  low,  here  congregate  and 
give  themselves  up  to  the  disgusting  worship  of  the 
genius  of  the  place. — From  the  dandy  of  the  Boulevard 
and  the  "  Cafe  Anglais,"  let  us  turn  to  the  dandy  of 
"  Flicoteau's  "  and  the  Pays  Latin— the  Paris  student, 
whose  exploits  among  the  grisettes  are  so  celebrated, 
and  whose  fierce  republicanism  keeps  gendarmes  for 
ever  on  the  alert.  The  following  is  M.  de  Bernard's 
description  of  him: — 

"  I  became  acquainted  with  Dambergeac  when  we 
were  students  at  the  Ecole  de  Droit;  we  lived  in  the 
same  Hotel  on  the  Place  du  Pantheon.  No  doubt, 
madam,  you  have  occasionally  met  little  children  dedi- 
cated to  the  Virgin,  and,  to  this  end,  clothed  in  white 
raiment  from  head  to  foot :  my  friend,  Dambergeac,  had 
received  a  different  consecration.  His  father,  a  great 
patriot  of  the  Revolution,  had  determined  that  his  son 
should  bear  into  the  world  a  sign  of  indelible  republican- 
ism; so,  to  the  great  displeasure  of  his  godmother  and 
the  parish  curate,  Dambergeac  was  christened  by  the 
pagan  name  of  Harmodius.  It  was  a  kind  of  moral 
tricolor-cockade,  which  the  child  was  to  bear  through 
the  vicissitudes  of  all  the  revolutions  to  come.  Under 
such  influences,  my  friend's  character  began  to  develop 
itself,  and,  fired  by  the  example  of  his  father,  and  by 
the  warm  atmosphere  of  his  native  place,  Marseilles,  he 
grew  up  to  have  an  independent  spirit,  and  a  grand  lib- 


126         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

erality  of  politics,  which  were  at  their  height  when  first 
I  made  his  acquaintance. 

"  He  was  then  a  young  man  of  eighteen,  with  a  tall, 
slim  figure,  a  broad  chest,  and  a  flaming  black  eye,  out  of 
all  which  personal  charms  he  knew  how  to  draw  the  most 
advantage;  and  though  his  costume  was  such  as  Staub 
might  probably  have  criticized,  he  had,  neverthe- 
less, a  style  peculiar  to  himself— to  himself  and  the 
students,  among  whom  he  was  the  leader  of  the  fashion. 
A  tight  black  coat,  buttoned  up  to  the  chin,  across  the 
chest,  set  off  that  part  of  his  person ;  a  low-crowned  hat, 
with  a  voluminous  rim,  cast  solemn  shadows  over  a  coun- 
tenance bronzed  by  a  southern  sun:  he  wore,  at  one 
time,  enormous  flowing  blaclv  locks,  which  he  sacrificed 
pitilessly,  however,  and  adopted  a  Brutus,  as  being  more 
revolutionary :  finally,  he  carried  an  enormous  club,  that 
was  his  code  and  digest :  in  like  manner,  De  Retz  used  to 
carry  a  stiletto  in  his  pocket,  by  way  of  a  breviary. 

"  Although  of  different  ways  of  thinking  in  politics, 
certain  sympathies  of  character  and  conduct  united 
Dambergeac  and  myself,  and  we  speedily  became  close 
friends.  I  don't  think,  in  the  whole  course  of  his  three 
years'  residence,  Dambergeac  ever  went  through  a  single 
course  of  lectures.  For  the  examinations,  he  trusted  to 
luck,  and  to  his  own  facility,  which  was  prodigious :  as  for 
honours,  he  never  aimed  at  them,  but  was  content  to 
do  exactly  as  little  as  was  necessary  for  him  to  gain  his 
degree.  In  like  manner  he  sedulously  avoided  those 
horrible  circulating  libraries,  where  daily  are  seen  to 
congregate  the  'reading  men'  of  our  schools.  But,  in 
revenge,  there  was  not  a  milliner's  shop,  or  a  lingere's, 
in  all  our  quartier  Latin,  which  he  did  not  industriously 
frequent,  and  of  which  he  was  not  the  oracle.    Nay,  it 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  127 

was  said  that  his  victories  were  not  confined  to  the  left 
bank  of  the  Seine;  reports  did  occasionally  come  to  us 
of  fabulous  adventures  by  him  accomplished  in  the  far 
regions  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  the  Boulevard  Pois- 
sonniere.  Such  recitals  were,  for  us  less  favoured  mor- 
tals, like  tales  of  Bacchus  conquering  in  the  East;  they 
excited  our  ambition,  but  not  our  jealousy;  for  the 
superiority  of  Harmodius  was  acknowledged  by  us  all, 
and  we  never  thought  of  a  rivalry  with  him.  No  man 
ever  cantered  a  hack  through  the  Champs  Elysees  with 
such  elegant  assurance;  no  man  ever  made  such  a  mas- 
sacre of  dolls  at  the  shooting-gallery;  or  won  you  a 
rubber  at  billiards  with  more  easy  grace;  or  thundered 
out  a  couplet  out  of  Beranger  with  such  a  roaring  me- 
lodious bass.  He  was  the  monarch  of  the  Prado  in  win- 
ter: in  summer  of  the  Chaumiere  and  Mont  Parnasse. 
Not  a  frequenter  of  those  fashionable  places  of  enter- 
tainment showed  a  more  amiable  laisser-aller  in  the 
dance — that  peculiar  dance  at  which  gendarmes  think 
proper  to  blush,  and  which  squeamish  society  has  banished 
from  her  salons.  In  a  word,  Harmodius  was  the  prince 
of  mauvais  sujets,  a  youth  with  all  the  accomplishments 
of  Gottingen  and  Jena,  and  all  the  eminent  graces  of  his 
own  country. 

"  Besides  dissipation  and  gallantry,  our  friend  had 
one  other  vast  and  absorbing  occupation — politics, 
namely;  in  which  he  was  as  turbulent  and  enthusiastic 
as  in  pleasure.  JLa  Patrie  was  his  idol,  his  heaven,  his 
nightmare;  by  day  he  spouted,  by  night  he  dreamed,  of 
his  country.  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  his  coiffure  a  la 
Sylla;  need  I  mention  his  pipe,  his  meerschaum  pipe, 
of  which  General  Foy's  head  was  the  bowl ;  his  handker- 
chief with  the  Charte  printed  thereon ;  and  his  celebrated 


128  THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

tricolor  braces,  which  kept  the  rallying  sign  of  his  coun- 
try ever  close  to  his  heart?  Besides  these  outward  and 
visible  signs  of  sedition,  he  had  inward  and  secret  plans 
of  revolution:  he  belonged  to  clubs,  frequented  associa- 
tions, read  the  Constitutionnel  (Liberals,  in  those  days, 
swore  by  the  Constitutionnel) ,  harangued  peers  and  dep- 
uties who  had  deserved  well  of  their  country ;  and  if  death 
happened  to  fall  on  such,  and  the  Constitutionnel  de- 
clared their  merit,  Harmodius  was  the  very  first  to  at- 
tend their  obsequies,  or  to  set  his  shoulder  to  their  coffins. 

"  Such  were  his  tastes  and  passions:  his  antipathies 
were  not  less  lively.  He  detested  three  things :  a  Jesuit,  a 
gendarme,  and  a  claqueur  at  a  theatre.  At  this  period, 
missionaries  were  rife  about  Paris,  and  endeavoured  to 
re-illume  the  zeal  of  the  faithful  by  public  preachings  in 
the  churches.  '  Inf dines  jesuites! '  would  Harmodius 
exclaim,  who,  in  the  excess  of  his  toleration,  tolerated 
nothing ;  and,  at  the  head  of  a  band  of  philosophers  like 
himself,  would  attend  with  scrupulous  exactitude  the 
meetings  of  the  reverend  gentlemen.  But,  instead  of  a 
contrite  heart,  Harmodius  only  brought  the  abomination 
of  desolation  into  their  sanctuary.  A  perpetual  fire  of 
fulminating  balls  would  bang  from  under  the  feet  of 
the  faithful ;  odours  of  impure  assafcetida  would  mingle 
with  the  fumes  of  the  incense;  and  wicked  drinking 
choruses  would  rise  up  along  with  the  holy  canticles,  in 
hideous  dissonance,  reminding  one  of  the  old  orgies  un- 
der the  reign  of  the  Abbot  of  Unreason. 

"  His  hatred  of  the  gendarmes  was  equally  ferocious: 
and  as  for  the  claqueurs,  woe  be  to  them  when  Harmo- 
dius was  in  the  pit !  They  knew  him,  and  trembled  before 
him,  like  the  earth  before  Alexander;  and  his  famous 
war-cry,  '  La  Carte  au  chapeau! '  was  so  much  dreaded. 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  129 

that  the  '^entrepreneurs  de  succes  draniatiques '  de- 
manded twice  as  much  to  do  the  Odeon  Theatre  (which 
we  students  and  Harmodius  frequented),  as  to  applaud 
at  any  other  place  of  amusement:  and,  indeed,  their 
double  pay  was  hardly  gained;  Harmodius  taking  care 
that  they  should  earn  the  most  of  it  under  the  benches." 

This  passage,  with  which  we  have  taken  some  liberties, 
will  give  the  reader  a  more  lively  idea  of  the  reckless,  jo- 
vial, turbulent  Paris  student,  than  any  with  which  a  for- 
eigner could  furnish  him :  the  grisette  is  his  heroine ;  and 
dear  old  Beranger,  the  cynic-epicurean,  has  celebrated 
him  and  her  in  the  most  delightful  verses  in  the  world. 
Of  these  we  may  have  occasion  to  say  a  word  or  two  anon. 
Meanwhile  let  us  follow  Monsieur  de  Bernard  in  his 
amusing  descriptions  of  his  countrymen  somewhat  far- 
ther ;  and,  having  seen  how  Dambergeac  was  a  ferocious 
republican,  being  a  bachelor,  let  us  see  how  age,  sense, 
and  a  little  government  pay— the  great  agent  of  conver- 
sions in  France — nay,  in  England — has  reduced  him  to 
be  a  pompous,  quiet,  loyal  supporter  of  the  juste  milieu: 
his  former  portrait  was  that  of  the  student,  the  present 
will  stand  for  an  admirable  lively  likeness  of 

THE     SOUS-PREFET 

"  Saying  that  I  would  wait  for  Dambergeac  in  his 
own  study,  I  was  introduced  into  that  apartment,  and 
saw  around  me  the  usual  furniture  of  a  man  in  his  sta- 
tion. There  was,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  large 
bureau,  surrounded  by  orthodox  arm-chairs;  and  there 
were  many  shelves  with  boxes  duly  ticketed ;  there  were 
a  number  of  maps,  and  among  them  a  great  one  of  the 


130  THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 

department  over  which  Dambergeac  ruled;  and  facing 
the  windows,  on  a  wooden  pedestal,  stood  a  plaster-cast 
of  the  "^Roi  des  Frangais/  Recollecting  my  friend's 
former  republicanism,  I  smiled  at  this  piece  of  furniture ; 
but  before  I  had  time  to  carry  my  observations  any  far- 
ther, a  heavy  rolling  sound  of  carriage-wheels,  that 
caused  the  windows  to  rattle  and  seemed  to  shake  the 
whole  edifice  of  the  sub-prefecture,  called  my  attention 
to  the  court  without.  Its  iron  gates  were  flung  open, 
and  in  rolled,  with  a  great  deal  of  din,  a  chariot  escorted 
by  a  brace  of  gendarmes,  sword  in  hand.  A  tall  gentle- 
man, with  a  cocked-hat  and  feathers,  wearing  a  blue  and 
silver  uniform  coat,  descended  from  the  vehicle;  and 
having,  with  much  grave  condescension,  saluted  his  es- 
cort, mounted  the  stair.  A  moment  afterwards  the  door 
of  the  study  was  opened,  and  I  embraced  my  friend. 

"  After  the  first  warmth  and  salutations,  we  began 
to  examine  each  other  with  an  equal  curiosity,  for  eight 
years  had  elapsed  since  we  had  last  met. 

"  '  You  are  grown  very  thin  and  pale,'  said  Harmo- 
dius,  after  a  moment. 

"  '  In  revenge  I  find  you  fat  and  rosy:  if  I  am  a  walk- 
ing satire  on  celibacy, — you,  at  least,  are  a  living  pane- 
gyric on  marriage.' 

"  In  fact  a  great  change,  and  such  an  one  as  many 
people  would  call  a  change  for  the  better,  had  taken  place 
in  my  friend :  he  had  grown  fat,  and  announced  a  decided 
disposition  to  become  what  French  people  call  a  hel 
homme:  that  is,  a  very  fat  one.  His  complexion,  bronzed 
before,  was  now  clear  white  and  red :  there  were  no  more 
political  allusions  in  his  hair,  which  was,  on  the  contrary, 
neatly  frizzed,  and  brushed  over  the  forehead,  shell- 
shape.     This  head-dress,  joined  to  a  thin  pair  of  whis- 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  131 

kers,  cut  crescent-wise  from  the  ear  to  the  nose,  gave 
my  friend  a  regular  bourgeois  physiognomy,  wax-doll- 
hke :  he  looked  a  great  deal  too  well ;  and,  added  to  this, 
the  solemnity  of  his  prefectural  costume,  gave  his  whole 
appearance  a  pompous  well-fed  look  that  by  no  means 
pleased. 

"  '  I  surprise  you,'  said  I,  '  in  the  midst  of  your 
splendour:  do  you  know  that  this  costume  and  yonder 
attendants  have  a  look  excessively  awful  and  splendid? 
You  entered  your  palace  just  now  with  the  air  of  a 
pasha.' 

You  see  me  in  uniform  in  honour  of  Monseigneur 
the  Bishop,  who  has  just  made  his  diocesan  visit,  and 
whom  I  have  just  conducted  to  the  limit  of  the  arron- 
dissement.' 

What! '  said  I,  '  you  have  gendarmes  for  guards, 
and  dance  attendance  on  bishops?  There  are  no  more 
janissaries  and  Jesuits,  I  suppose? '  The  sub-prefect 
smiled. 

"  '  I  assure  you  that  my  gendarmes  are  very  worthy 
fellows ;  and  that  among  the  gentlemen  who  compose  our 
clergy  there  are  some  of  the  very  best  rank  and  talent: 
besides,  my  wife  is  niece  to  one  of  the  vicars-general.' 

What  have  you  done  with  that  great  Tasso  beard 
that  poor  Armandine  used  to  love  so  ? ' 

My  wife  does  not  like  a  beard ;  and  you  know  that 
what  is  permitted  to  a  student  is  not  very  becoming  to  a 
magistrate.' 

"  I  began  to  laugh.  *  Harmodius  and  a  magistrate! 
— how  shall  I  ever  couple  the  two  words  together?  But 
tell  me,  in  your  correspondences,  your  audiences,  your 
sittings  with  village  mayors  and  petty  councils,  how  do 
you  manage  to  remain  awake? ' 


132         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

"  '  In  the  commencement,'  said  Harmodius,  gravely, 
'  it  was  very  difficult ;  and,  in  order  to  keep  my  eyes 
open,  I  used  to  stick  pins  into  my  legs:  now,  however, 
I  am  used  to  it;  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  take  more  than  fifty 
pinches  of  snufF  at  a  sitting.' 

"  '  Ah!  apropos  of  snufF:  you  are  near  Spain  here,  and 
were  always  a  famous  smoker.  Give  me  a  cigar, — it 
will  take  away  the  musty  odour  of  these  piles  of  papers.' 

"  '  Impossible,  my  dear;  I  don't  smoke;  my  wife  can- 
not bear  a  cigar.' 

"  His  wife!  thought  I:  always  his  wife;  and  I  remem- 
ber Juliette,  who  really  grew  sick  at  the  smell  of  a  pipe, 
and  Harmodius  would  smoke,  until,  at  last,  the  poor 
thing  grew  to  smoke  herself,  like  a  trooper.  To  compen- 
sate, however,  as  much  as  possible  for  the  loss  of  my 
cigar,  Dambergeac  drew  from  his  pocket  an  enormous 
gold  snuff-box,  on  which  figured  the  selfsame  head  that 
I  had  before  remarked  in  plaster,  but  this  time  sur- 
rounded with  a  ring  of  pretty  princes  and  princesses,  all 
nicely  painted  in  miniature.  As  for  the  statue  of  Louis 
Philippe,  that,  in  the  cabinet  of  an  official,  is  a  thing  of 
course ;  but  the  snuff-box  seemed  to  indicate  a  degree  of 
sentimental  and  personal  devotion,  such  as  the  old  Roy- 
alists were  only  supposed  to  be  guilty  of. 

What!  you  are  turned  decided  juste  milieu? '  said 
I. 

"  '  I  am  a  sous-prefet,'  answered  Harmodius. 

"  I  had  nothing  to  say,  but  held  my  tongue,  wonder- 
ing, not  at  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  the 
habits,  manners,  and  opinions  of  my  friend,  but  at  my 
own  folly,  which  led  me  to  fancy  that  I  should  find  the 
student  of  '26  in  the  functionary  of  '34.  At  this  moment 
a  domestic  appeared. 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  133 

Madame  is  waiting  for  Monsieur,'  said  he : '  the  last 
bell  has  gone,  and  mass  beginning.' 

Mass! '  said  I,  bounding  up  from  my  chair.  '  You 
at  mass,  like  a  decent  serious  Christian,  without  crackers 
in  your  pocket,  and  bored  keys  to  whistle  through  ? ' 
— The  sous-prefet  rose,  his  countenance  was  calm,  and 
an  indulgent  smile  played  upon  his  lips,  as  he  said,  '  My 
arrondissement  is  very  devout ;  and  not  to  interfere  with 
the  belief  of  the  population  is  the  maxim  of  every  wise 
politician:  I  have  precise  orders  from  Government  on 
the  point,  too,  and  go  to  eleven  o'clock  mass  every  Sun- 
day.'  " 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  curious  matter  for  specula- 
tion in  the  accounts  here  so  wittily  given  by  M.  de  Ber- 
nard: but,  perhaps,  it  is  still  more  curious  to  think  of 
what  he  has  not  written,  and  to  judge  of  his  characters, 
not  so  much  by  the  words  in  which  he  describes  them, 
as  by  the  unconscious  testimony  that  the  words  all  to- 
gether convey.  In  the  first  place,  our  author  describes 
a  swindler  imitating  the  manners  of  a  dandy ;  and  many 
swindlers  and  dandies  be  there,  doubtless,  in  London  as 
well  as  in  Paris.  But  there  is  about  the  present  swindler, 
and  about  Monsieur  Dambergeac  the  student,  and  JVIon- 
sieur  Dambergeac  the  sous-prefet,  and  his  friend,  a  rich 
store  of  calm  internal  debauch,  which  does  not,  let  us 
hope  and  pray,  exist  in  England.  Hearken  to  M.  de 
Gustan,  and  his  smirking  whispers  about  the  Duchess  of 
San  Severino,  who  pour  son  bonheur  particulier,  &c.  &c. 
Listen  to  Monsieur  Dambergeac's  friend's  remon- 
strances concerning  pauvre  Juliette,  who  grew  sick  at 
the  smell  of  a  pipe;  to  his  naive  admiration  at  the  fact 
that  the  sous-prefet  goes  to  church:  and  we  may  set 


134  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

down,  as  axioms,  that  religion  is  so  uncommon  among 
the  Parisians,  as  to  awaken  the  surprise  of  all  candid 
observers;  that  gallantry  is  so  common  as  to  create  no 
remark,  and  to  be  considered  as  a  matter  of  course. 
With  us,  at  least,  the  converse  of  the  proposition  pre- 
vails: it  is  the  man  professing  irreligion  who  would  be 
remarked  and  reprehended  in  England;  and,  if  the 
second-named  vice  exists,  at  any  rate,  it  adopts  the  de- 
cency of  secrecy,  and  is  not  made  patent  and  notorious 
to  all  the  world.  A  French  gentleman  thinks  no  more 
of  proclaiming  that  he  has  a  mistress  than  that  he  has 
a  tailor;  and  one  lives  the  time  of  Boccaccio  over  again, 
in  the  thousand  and  one  French  novels  which  depict 
society  in  that  country. 

For  instance,  here  are  before  us  a  few  specimens  (do 
not,  madam,  be  alarmed,  you  can  skip  the  sentence  if 
you  like,)  to  be  found  in  as  many  admirable  witty  tales, 
by  the  before-lauded  Monsieur  de  Bernard.  He  is  more 
remarkable  than  any  other  French  author,  to  our  notion, 
for  writing  like  a  gentleman:  there  is  ease,  grace  and 
ton,  in  his  style,  which,  if  we  judge  aright,  cannot  be 
discovered  in  Balzac,  or  Soulie,  or  Dumas.  We  have 
then — "  Gerfaut,"  a  novel:  a  lovely  creature  is  married  to 
a  brave,  haughty,  Alsatian  nobleman,  who  allows  her 
to  spend  her  winters  at  Paris,  he  remaining  on  his  terres, 
cultivating,  carousing,  and  hunting  the  boar.  The  lovely 
creature  meets  the  fascinating  Gerfaut  at  Paris;  in- 
stantly the  latter  makes  love  to  her;  a  duel  takes  place: 
baron  killed ;  wife  throws  herself  out  of  window ;  Gerfaut 
plunges  into  dissipation;  and  so  the  tale  ends. 

Next:  "La  Femme  de  Quarante  Ans,"  a  capital 
tale,  full  of  exquisite  fun  and  sparkling  satire:  La 
femme  de  quarante  ans  has  a  husband  and  three  lovers; 


FREXCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  135 

all  of  whom  find  out  their  mutual  connexion  one 
starry  night;  for  the  lady  of  forty  is  of  a  romantic 
poetical  turn,  and  has  given  her  three  admirers  a  star 
apiece;  saying  to  one  and  the  other,  "  Alphonse,  when 
yon  pale  orb  rises  in  heaven,  think  of  me;  "  "  Isidore, 
when  that  bright  planet  sparkles  in  the  sky,  remember 
your  Caroline,"  &c. 

"  Un  Acte  de  Vertu,"  from  which  we  have  taken 
Dambergeac's  history,  contains  him,  the  husband — a 
wife — and  a  brace  of  lovers;  and  a  great  deal  of  fun 
takes  place  in  the  manner  in  which  one  lover  supplants 
the  other. — Pretty  morals  truly! 

If  we  examine  an  author  who  rejoices  in  the  aristo- 
cratic name  of  le  Comte  Horace  de  Viel-Castel,  we  find, 
though  with  infinitely  less  wit,  exactly  the  same  intrigues 
going  on.  A  noble  Count  lives  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Honore,  and  has  a  noble  Duchess  for  a  mistress:  he  in- 
troduces her  Grace  to  the  Countess  his  wife.  The 
Countess,  his  wife,  in  order  to  ramener  her  lord  to  his 
conjugal  duties,  is  counselled,  by  a  friend,  to  jJJ^^tend 
to  take  a  lover:  one  is  found,  who,  poor  fellow!  takes 
the  affair  in  earnest:  climax— duel,  death,  despair,  and 
what  not?  In  the  "  Faubourg  St.  Germain,"  another 
novel  by  the  same  writer,  which  professes  to  describe 
the  very  pink  of  that  society  which  Napoleon  dreaded 
more  than  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Austria,  there  is  an  old 
husband,  of  course ;  a  sentimental  young  German  noble- 
man, who  falls  in  love  with  his  wife;  and  the  moral  of 
the  piece  lies  in  the  showing  up  of  the  conduct  of  the 
lady,  who  is  reprehended — not  for  deceiving  her  hus- 
band (poor  devil!)  —but  for  being  a  flirt,  and  taking  a 
second  lover,  to  the  utter  despair,  confusion,  and  anni- 
hilation of  the  first. 


136  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Why,  ye  gods,  do  Frenchmen  marry  at  all?  Had 
Pere  Enfantin  (who,  it  is  said,  has  shaved  his  ambrosial 
beard,  and  is  now  a  clerk  in  a  banking-house)  been  al- 
lowed to  carry  out  his  chaste,  just,  dignified  social 
scheme,  what  a  deal  of  marital  discomfort  might  have 
been  avoided: — would  it  not  be  advisable  that  a  great 
reformer  and  lawgiver  of  our  own,  Mr.  Robert  Owen, 
should  be  presented  at  the  Tuileries,  and  there  propound 
his  scheme  for  the  regeneration  of  France  ? 

He  might,  perhaps,  be  spared,  for  our  country  is  not 
yet  sufficiently  advanced  to  give  such  a  philosopher  fair 
play.  In  London,  as  yet,  there  are  no  blessed  Bureaux 
de  Manage,  where  an  old  bachelor  may  have  a  charming 
young  maiden — for  his  money;  or  a  widow  of  seventy 
may  buy  a  gay  young  fellow  of  twenty,  for  a  certain 
number  of  bank-billets.  If  manages  de  convenance 
take  place  here  (as  they  will  wherever  avarice,  and  pov- 
erty, and  desire,  and  yearning  after  riches  are  to  be 
found),  at  least,  thank  God,  such  unions  are  not  ar- 
ranged upon  a  regular  organized  system:  there  is  a  fic- 
tion of  attachment  with  us,  and  there  is  a  consolation  in 
the  deceit  ("  the  homage,"  according  to  the  old  mot  of 
Rochefoucauld,  "which  vice  pays  to  virtue")  ;  for  the 
very  falsehood  shows  that  the  virtue  exists  somewhere. 
We  once  heard  a  furious  old  French  colonel  inveighing 
against  the  chastity  of  English  demoiselles:  "  Figurez- 
vous,  sir,"  said  he  (he  had  been  a  prisoner  in  England), 
"  that  these  women  come  down  to  dinner  in  low  dresses, 
and  walk  out  alone  with  the  men!  "—and,  pray  heaven, 
so  may  they  walk,  fancy-free  in  all  sorts  of  maiden 
meditations,  and  suffer  no  more  molestation  than  that 
young  lady  of  whom  Moore  sings,  and  who  (there  must 
have  been  a  famous  lord-lieutenant  in  those  days)  walked 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  137 

through  all  Ireland,  with  rich  and  rare  gems,  beauty, 
and  a  gold  ring  on  her  stick,  without  meeting  or  thinking 
of  harm. 

Now,  whether  INIonsieur  de  Viel-Castel  has  given  a 
true  picture  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  most  foreigners  to  say ;  but  some  of  his  descrip- 
tions will  not  fail  to  astonish  the  English  reader ;  and  all 
are  filled  with  that  remarkable  naif  contempt  of  the 
institution  called  marriage,  which  we  have  seen  in  M. 
de  Bernard.  The  romantic  young  nobleman  of  West- 
phalia arrives  at  Paris,  and  is  admitted  into  what  a  cele- 
brated female  author  calls  la  crime  de  la  creme  de  la 
haute  volee  of  Parisian  society.  He  is  a  youth  of  about 
twenty  years  of  age.  "  No  passion  had  as  yet  come  to 
move  his  heart,  and  give  life  to  his  faculties;  he  was 
awaiting  and  fearing  the  moment  of  love ;  calling  for  it, 
and  yet  trembling  at  its  approach ;  feeling,  in  the  depths 
of  his  soul,  that  that  moment  would  create  a  mighty 
change  in  his  being,  and  decide,  perhaps,  by  its  influence, 
the  whole  of  his  future  life." 

Is  it  not  remarkable,  that  a  young  nobleman,  with 
these  ideas,  should  not  pitch  upon  a  demoiselle,  or  a 
widow,  at  least?  but  no,  the  rogue  must  have  a  married 
woman,  bad  luck  to  him ;  and  what  his  fate  is  to  be,  is  thus 
recounted  by  our  author,  in  the  shape  of 

A  FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  CONVERSATION 

"  A  lady,  with  a  great  deal  of  esprit,  to  whom  forty 
years'  experience  of  the  great  world  had  given  a  pro- 
digious perspicacity  of  judgment,  the  Duchess  of  Cha- 
lux,  arbitress  of  the  opinion  to  be  held  on  all  new 
comers  to  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain,  and  of  their 


138  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

destiny  and  reception  in  it; — one  of  those  women,  in  a 
word,  who  make  or  ruin  a  man, — said,  in  speaking  of 
Gerard  de  Stolberg,  whom  she  received  at  her  own  house, 
and  met  everywhere,  '  This  young  German  will  never 
gain  for  himself  the  title  of  an  exquisite,  or  a  man  of 
bonnes  fortunes,  among  us.  In  spite  of  his  calm  and 
politeness,  I  think  I  can  see  in  his  character  some  rude 
and  insurmountable  difficulties,  which  time  will  only 
increase,  and  which  will  prevent  him  for  ever  from 
bending  to  the  exigencies  of  either  profession;  but,  un- 
less I  very  much  deceive  myself,  he  will,  one  day,  be 
the  hero  of  a  veritable  romance.' 

"'He,  madame?'  answered  a  young  man,  of  fair 
complexion  and  fair  hair,  one  of  the  most  devoted  slaves 
of  the  fashion:  —  '  He,  INIadame  la  Duchesse?  why,  the 
man  is,  at  best,  but  an  original,  fished  out  of  the  Rhine : 
a  dull,  heavy  creature,  as  much  capable  of  understand- 
ing a  woman's  heart  as  I  am  of  speaking  bas-Breton.' 

"  '  Well,  Monsieur  de  Belport,  you  will  speak  bas- 
Breton.  Monsieur  de  Stolberg  has  not  your  admirable 
ease  of  manner,  nor  your  facility  of  telling  pretty 
nothings,  nor  your— in  a  word,  that  particular  some- 
thing which  makes  you  the  most  recherche  man  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint  Germain ;  and  even  I  avow  to  you  that, 
were  I  still  young,  and  a  coquette,  and  that  I  took  it 
into  my  head  to  have  a  lover,  I  would  prefer  you.' 

"  All  this  was  said  by  the  Duchess,  with  a  certain 
air  of  raillery  and  such  a  mixture  of  earnest  and  malice, 
that  Monsieur  de  Belport,  piqued  not  a  little,  could  not 
help  saying,  as  he  bowed  profoundly  before  the  Duch- 
ess's chair,  '  And  might  I,  madam,  be  permitted  to  ask 
the  reason  of  this  preference? ' 

"  '  O  mon  Dieu,  oui,'  said  the  Duchess,  always  in  the 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  139 

same  tone ;  '  because  a  lover  like  you  would  never  think 
of  carrying  his  attachment  to  the  height  of  passion; 
and  these  passions,  do  you  know,  have  frightened  me  all 
my  life.  One  cannot  retreat  at  will  from  the  grasp  of 
a  passionate  lover ;  one  leaves  behind  one  some  fragment 
of  one's  moral  self,  or  the  best  part  of  one's  physical  life. 
A  passion,  if  it  does  not  kill  you,  adds  ci-uelly  to  your 
years ;  in  a  word,  it  is  the  very  lowest  possible  taste.  And 
now  you  understand  why  I  should  prefer  you,  M.  de 
Belport— you  who  are  reputed  to  be  the  leader  of  the 
fashion.' 

"  '  Perfectly,'  murmured  the  gentleman,  piqued  more 
and  more. 

"'Gerard  de  Stolberg  xmll  be  passionate.  I  don't  know 
what  woman  will  please  him,  or  will  be  pleased  by  him ' 
(here  the  Duchess  of  Chalux  spoke  more  gravely)  ;  '  but 
his  love  will  be  no  play,  I  repeat  it  to  you  once  more. 
All  this  astonishes  you,  because  you,  great  leaders  of 
the  ton  that  you  are,  never  can  fancy  that  a  hero  of  ro- 
mance should  be  found  among  your  number.  Gerard 
de  Stolberg — but  look,  here  he  comes! ' 

"  M.  de  Belport  rose,  and  quitted  the  Duchess,  with- 
out believing  in  her  prophecy;  but  he  could  not  avoid 
smiling  as  he  passed  near  the  hero  of  roinance. 

*'  It  was  because  M.  de  Stolberg  had  never,  in  all  his 
life,  been  a  hero  of  romance,  or  even  an  apprentice-hero 
of  romance. 

^  ik  *  *  * 

"  Gerard  de  Stolberg  was  not,  as  yet,  initiated  into  the 
thousand  secrets  in  the  chronicle  of  the  great  world :  he 
knew  but  superficially  the  society  in  which  he  lived ;  and, 
therefore,  he  devoted  his  evening  to  the  gathering  of  all 
the  information  which  he  could  acquire  from  the  indis- 


140         THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 

creet  conversations  of  the  people  about  him.  His  whole 
man  became  ear  and  memory;  so  much  was  Stolberg 
convinced  of  the  necessity  of  becoming  a  diligent  stu- 
dent in  this  new  school,  where  was  taught  the  art  of 
knowing  and  advancing  in  the  great  world.  In  the 
recess  of  a  window  he  learned  more  on  this  one  night  than 
months  of  investigation  would  have  taught  him.  The 
talk  of  a  ball  is  more  indiscreet  than  the  confidential 
chatter  of  a  company  of  idle  women.  No  man  present  at 
a  ball,  whether  listener  or  speaker,  thinks  he  has  a  right 
to  affect  any  indulgence  for  his  companions,  and  the 
most  learned  in  malice  will  always  pass  for  the  most 
witty. 

"'How!'  said  the  Viscount  de  Mondrage:  'the 
Duchess  of  Rivesalte  arrives  alone  to-night,  without  her 
inevitable  Dormilly!' — And  the  Viscount,  as  he  spoke, 
pointed  towards  a  tall  and  slender  young  woman,  who, 
gliding  rather  than  walking,  met  the  ladies  by  whom  she 
passed,  with  a  graceful  and  modest  salute,  and  replied 
to  the  looks  of  the  men  hy  hrilliant  veiled  glances  full  of 
coquetry  and  attack. 

"  '  Parbleu! '  said  an  elegant  personage  standing  near 
the  Viscount  de  Mondrage,  '  don't  you  see  Dormilly 
ranged  behind  the  Duchess,  in  quality  of  train-bearer, 
and  hiding,  under  his  long  locks  and  his  great  screen  of 
moustaches,  the  blushing  consciousness  of  his  good  luck? 
— They  call  him  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  Duchess's 
memoirs.  The  little  Marquise  d'Alberas  is  ready  to  die 
out  of  spite;  but  the  best  of  the  joke  is,  that  she  has 
only  taken  poor  de  Vendre  for  a  lover  in  order  to  vent 
her  spleen  on  him.  Look  at  him  against  the  chimney 
yonder;  if  the  Marchioness  do  not  break  at  once  with 


FRENCH  FASHIONABLE  NOVELS  141 

him  by  quitting  him  for  somebody  else,  the  poor  fellow 
will  turn  an  idiot.' 

"  '  Is  he  jealous? '  asked  a  young  man,  looking  as  if 
he  did  not  know  what  jealousy  was  and  as  if  he  had 
no  time  to  be  jealous. 

"'Jealous! — the  very  incarnation  of  jealousy;  the 
second  edition,  revised,  corrected,  and  considerably 
enlarged;  as  jealous  as  poor  Gressigny,  who  is  dying 
of  it.' 

"'What!  Gressigny  too?  why,  'tis  growing  quite 
into  fashion:  egad!  I  must  try  and  be  jealous,'  said 
Monsieur  de  Beauval.  '  But  see !  here  comes  the  delicious 
Duchess  of  Bellefiore,'  "  &c.  &c.  &c. 

"T»  ^  ^^  *p^ 

Enough,  enough:  this  kind  of  fashionable  Parisian 
conversation,  which  is,  says  our  author,  "  a  prodigious 
labour  of  improvising,"  a  "  chef-d'oeuvre,"  a  "  strange 
and  singular  thing,  in  which  monotony  is  unknown," 
seems  to  be,  if  correctly  reported,  a  "  strange  and  singu- 
lar thing  "  indeed ;  but  somewhat  monotonous  at  least 
to  an  English  reader,  and  "  prodigious  "  only,  if  we  may 
take  leave  to  say  so,  for  the  wonderful  rascality  which 
all  the  conversationists  betray.  Miss  Neverout  and  the 
Colonel,  in  Swift's  famous  dialogue,  are  a  thousand 
times  more  entertaining  and  moral ;  and,  besides,  we  can 
laugh  at  those  worthies  as  well  as  with  them ;  whereas  the 
"  prodigious  "  French  wits  are  to  us  quite  incomprehen- 
sible.   Fancy  a  duchess  as  old  as  Lady herself,  and 

who  should  begin  to  tell  us  "  of  what  she  would  do  if 
ever  she  had  a  mind  to  take  a  lover;  "  and  another 
duchess,  with  a  fourth  lover,  tripping  modestly  among 
the  ladies,  and  returning  the  gaze  of  the  men  by  veiled 


142  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

glances,  full  of  coquetry  and  attack!— Parbleu,  if  Mon- 
sieur de  Viel-Castel  should  find  himself  among  a  society 
of  French  duchesses,  and  they  should  tear  his  eyes  out, 
and  send  the  fashionable  Orpheus  floating  by  the  Seine, 
his  slaughter  might  almost  be  considered  as  justifiable 
Counticide. 


A  GAMBLER'S   DEATH 

A  NYBODY  who  was  at  C school  some  twelve 

±\.  years  since,  must  recollect  Jack  Attwood:  he  was 
the  most  dashing  lad  in  the  place,  with  more  money  in  his 
pocket  than  belonged  to  the  whole  fifth  form  in  which 
we  were  companions. 

When  he  was  about  fifteen.  Jack  suddenly  retreated 
from  C ,  and  presently  we  heard  that  he  had  a  com- 
mission in  a  cavalry  regiment,  and  was  to  have  a  great 
fortune  from  his  father,  when  that  old  gentleman  should 
die.  Jack  himself  came  to  confirm  these  stories  a  few 
months  after,  and  paid  a  visit  to  his  old  school  chums. 
He  had  laid  aside  his  little  school- jacket  and  inky  cordu- 
roys, and  now  appeared  in  such  a  splendid  military  suit 
as  won  the  respect  of  all  of  us.  His  hair  was  dripping 
with  oil,  his  hands  were  covered  with  rings,  he  had  a 
dusky  down  over  his  upper  lip  which  looked  not  unlike 
a  moustache,  and  a  multiplicity  of  frogs  and  braiding 
on  his  surtout  which  would  have  sufficed  to  lace  a  field- 
marshal.  When  old  Swishtail,  the  usher,  passed  in  his 
seedy  black  coat  and  gaiters.  Jack  gave  him  such  a  look 
of  contempt  as  set  us  all  a-laughing:  in  fact  it  was  his 
turn  to  laugh  now;  for  he  used  to  roar  very  stoutly 
some  months  before,  when  Swishtail  was  in  the  custom 
of  belabouring  him  with  his  great  cane. 

Jack's  talk  was  all  about  the  regiment  and  the  fine 
fellows  in  it:  how  he  had  ridden  a  steeple-chase  with 
Captain  Boldero,  and  licked  him  at  the  last  hedge;  and 

143 


144  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

how  he  had  very  nearly  fought  a  duel  with  Sir  George 
Grig,  about  dancing  with  Lady  Mary  Slamken  at  a 
ball.  "  I  soon  made  the  baronet  know  what  it  was  to 
deal  with  a  man  of  the  n — th,"  said  Jack.  "  Dammee, 
sir,  when  I  lugged  out  my  barkers,  and  talked  of  fight- 
ing across  the  mess-room  table,  Grig  turned  as  pale  as 
a  sheet,  or  as—" 

"  Or  as  you  used  to  do,  Attwood,  when  Swishtail 
hauled  you  up,"  piped  out  little  Hicks,  the  foundation- 
boy. 

It  was  beneath  Jack's  dignity  to  thrash  anybody,  now, 
but  a  grown-up  baronet;  so  he  let  off  little  Hicks,  and 
passed  over  the  general  titter  which  was  raised  at  his 
expense.  However,  he  entertained  us  with  his  histories 
about  lords  and  ladies,  and  so-and-so  "  of  ours,"  until 
we  thought  him  one  of  the  greatest  men  in  his  Majesty's 
service,  and  until  the  school-bell  rung;  when,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  we  got  our  books  together,  and  marched  in  to 
be  whacked  by  old  Swishtail.  I  promise  you  he  revenged 
himself  on  us  for  Jack's  contempt  of  him.  I  got  that  day 
at  least  twenty  cuts  to  my  share,  which  ought  to  have 
belonged  to  Coraet  Attwood,  of  the  n— th  dragoons. 

When  we  came  to  think  more  coolly  over  our  quondam 
schoolfellow's  swaggering  talk  and  manner,  we  were  not 
quite  so  impressed  by  his  merits  as  at  his  first  appear- 
ance among  us.  We  recollected  how  he  used,  in  former 
times,  to  tell  us  great  stories,  which  were  so  monstrously 
improbable  that  the  smallest  boy  in  the  school  would 
scout  them ;  how  often  we  caught  him  tripping  in  facts, 
and  how  unblushingly  he  admitted  his  little  errors  in  the 
score  of  veracity.  He  and  I,  though  never  great  friends, 
had  been  close  companions:  I  was  Jack's  form-fellow 
(we  fought  with  amazing  emulation  for  the  last  place 


A   GAMBLER'S   DEATH  145 

in  the  class)  ;  but  still  I  was  rather  hurt  at  the  coolness 
of  my  old  comrade,  who  had  forgotten  all  our  former 
intimacy,  in  his  steeple-chases  with  Captain  Boldero  and 
his  duel  with  Sir  George  Grig. 

Nothing  more  was  heard  of  Attwood  for  some  years ; 

a  tailor  one  day  came  down  to  C ,  who  had  made 

clothes  for  Jack  in  his  school-days,  and  furnished  him 
with  regimentals :  he  produced  a  long  bill  for  one  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  and  upwards,  and  asked  where  news 
might  be  had  of  his  customer.  Jack  was  in  India,  with 
his  regiment,  shooting  tigers  and  jackals,  no  doubt.  Oc- 
casionally, from  that  distant  country,  some  magnificent 
rumour  would  reach  us  of  his  proceedings.  Once  I  heard 
that  he  had  been  called  to  a  court-martial  for  unbecoming 
conduct;  another  time,  that  he  kept  twenty  horses,  and 
won  the  gold  plate  at  the  Calcutta  races.  Presently, 
however,  as  the  recollections  of  the  fifth  form  wore  away, 
Jack's  image  disapi3eared  likewise,  and  I  ceased  to  ask 
or  think  about  my  college  chum. 

A  year  since,  as  I  was  smoking  my  cigar  in  the  "  Es- 
taminet  du  Grand  Balcon,"  an  excellent  smoking-shop, 
Avhere  the  tobacco  is  unexceptionable,  and  the  Hollands 
of  singular  merit,  a  dark-looking,  thick-set  man,  in  a 
greasy  well-cut  coat,  with  a  shabby  hat,  cocked  on  one 
side  of  his  dirty  face,  took  the  place  opposite  me,  at  the 
little  marble  table,  and  called  for  brandy.  I  did  not 
much  admire  the  impudence  or  the  appearance  of  my 
friend,  nor  the  fixed  stare  with  which  he  chose  to  ex- 
amine me.  At  last,  he  thrust  a  great  greasy  hand  across 
the  table,  and  said,  "  Titmarsh,  do  you  forget  your  old 
friend  Attwood? " 

I  confess  my  recognition  of  him  was  not  so  joyful  as 
on  the  daj'^  ten  years  earlier,  when  he  had  come,  bedizened 


146 


THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 


with  lace  and  gold  rings,  to  see  us  at  C school:  a  man 

in  the  tenth  part  of  a  century  learns  a  deal  of  worldly 
wisdom,  and  his  hand,  which  goes  naturally  forward  to 
seize  the  gloved  finger  of  a  millionaire,  or  a  milor,  draws 
instinctively  back  from  a  dirty  fist,  encompassed  by  a 


ragged  wristband  and  a  tattered  cuff.  But  Attwood 
was  in  no  wise  so  backward;  and  the  iron  squeeze  with 
which  he  shook  my  passive  paw,  proved  that  he  was 
either  very  affectionate  or  very  poor.  You,  my  dear 
sir,  who  are  reading  this  history,  know  very  well  the 
great  art  of  shaking  hands:  recollect  how  you  shook 
Lord  Dash's  hand  the  other  day,  and  how  you  shook  off 
poor  Blank,  when  he  came  to  borrow  five  pounds  of  you. 
However,  the  genial  influence  of  the  Hollands  speed- 
ily dissipated  anything  hke  coolness  between  us ;  and,  in 


A  GAMBLER'S   DEATH  147 

the  course  of  an  hour's  conversation,  we  became  almost 
as  intimate  as  when  we  were  suffering  together  under  the 
ferule  of  old  Swishtail.  Jack  told  me  that  he  had  quitted 
the  army  in  disgust;  and  that  his  father,  who  was  to 
leave  him  a  fortune,  had  died  ten  thousand  pounds  in 
debt:  he  did  not  touch  upon  his  own  circumstances;  but 
I  could  read  them  in  his  elbows,  which  were  peeping 
through  his  old  frock.  He  talked  a  great  deal,  however, 
of  runs  of  luck,  good  and  bad ;  and  related  to  me  an  in- 
fallible plan  for  breaking  all  the  play-banks  in  Europe 
—a  great  number  of  old  tricks;— and  a  vast  quantity  of 
gin-punch  was  consumed  on  the  occasion;  so  long,  in 
fact,  did  our  conversation  continue,  that,  I  confess  it  with 
shame,  the  sentiment,  or  something  stronger,  quite  got 
the  better  of  me,  and  I  have,  to  this  day,  no  sort  of  no- 
tion how  our  palaver  concluded. — Only,  on  the  next 
morning,  I  did  not  possess  a  certain  five-pound  note, 
which  on  the  previous  evening  was  in  my  sketch-book 
(by  far  the  prettiest  drawing  by  the  way  in  the  collec- 
tion) ;  but  there,  instead,  was  a  strip  of  paper,  thus  in- 
scribed:— 

lOU 
Five  Pounds.      John  Attwood, 

Late  of  the  N — th  Dragoons. 

I  suppose  Attwood  borrowed  the  money,  from  this  re- 
markable and  ceremonious  acknowledgment  on  his  part : 
had  I  been  sober  I  would  just  as  soon  have  lent  him  the 
nose  on  my  face ;  for,  in  my  then  circumstances,  the  note 
was  of  much  more  consequence  to  me. 

As  I  lay,  cursing  my  ill  fortune,  and  thinking  how  on 
earth  I  should  manage  to  subsist  for  the  next  two 
months,  Attwood  burst  into  my  little  garret— his  face 
strangely  flushed — singing  and  shouting  as  if  it  had  been 


148  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

the  night  before.  "  Titmarsh,"  cried  he,  "  you  are  my 
preserver! — my  best  friend!  Look  here,  and  here,  and 
here!"  And  at  every  word  Mr.  Attwood  produced  a 
handful  of  gold,  or  a  glittering  heap  of  five-franc  pieces, 
or  a  bundle  of  greasy,  dusky  bank-notes,  more  beautiful 
than  either  silver  or  gold : — he  had  won  thirteen  thousand 
francs  after  leaving  me  at  midnight  in  my  garret.  He 
separated  my  poor  little  all,  of  six  pieces,  from  this  shin- 
ing and  imposing  collection;  and  the  passion  of  envy 
entered  my  soul:  I  felt  far  more  anxious  now  than  be- 
fore, although  starvation  was  then  staring  me  in  the  face ; 
I  hated  Attwood  for  cheating  me  out  of  all  this  wealth. 
Poor  fellow!  it  had  been  better  for  him  had  he  never 
seen  a  shilling  of  it.  However,  a  grand  breakfast  at  the 
Cafe  Anglais  dissipated  my  chagrin;  and  I  will  do  my 
friend  the  justice  to  say,  that  he  nobly  shared  some  por- 
tion of  his  good  fortune  with  me.  As  far  as  the  creature 
comforts  were  concerned  I  feasted  as  well  as  he,  and 
never  was  particular  as  to  settling  my  share  of  the 
reckoning. 

Jack  now  changed  his  lodgings ;  had  cards,  with  Cap- 
tain Attwood  engraved  on  them,  and  drove  about  a 
prancing  cab-horse,  as  tall  as  the  giraffe  at  the  Jardin 
des  Plantes;  he  had  as  many  frogs  on  his  coat  as  in  the 
old  days,  and  frequented  all  the  flash  restaurateurs'  and 
boarding-houses  of  the  capital.  Madame  de  Saint  Lau- 
rent, and  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Vaudrey,  and  Madame 
la  Comtesse  de  Don  Jonville,  ladies  of  the  highest  rank, 
who  keep  a  societe  choisie  and  condescend  to  give  dinners 
at  five  francs  a  head,  vied  with  each  other  in  their  atten- 
tions to  Jack.  His  was  the  wing  of  the  fowl,  and  the 
largest  portion  of  the  Charlotte-Russe ;  his  was  the  place 
at  the  ecarte  table,  where  the  Countess  would  ease  him 


A   GAMBLER'S   DEATH  149 

nightly  of  a  few  pieces,  declaring  that  he  was  the  most 
charming  cavalier,  la  fleur  d' Albion.  Jack's  society,  it 
may  be  seen,  w  as  not  very  select ;  nor,  in  truth,  were  his 
inclinations :  he  was  a  careless,  dare-devil,  JNIacheath  kind 
of  fellow,  who  might  be  seen  daily  with  a  wife  on  each 
arm. 

It  may  be  supposed  that,  with  the  life  he  led,  his  five 
hundred  pounds  of  winnings  would  not  last  him 
long;  nor  did  they;  but,  for  some  time,  his  luck  never 
deserted  him;  and  his  cash,  instead  of  growing  lower, 
seemed  always  to  maintain  a  certain  level:  he  played 
every  night. 

Of  course,  such  a  humble  fellow  as  I  could  not  hope 
for  a  continued  acquaintance  and  intimacy  with  Att- 
wood.  He  grew  overbearing  and  cool,  I  thought;  at 
any  rate  I  did  not  admire  my  situation  as  his  follower 
and  dependant,  and  left  his  grand  dinner  for  a  certain 
ordinary,  where  I  could  partake  of  five  capital  dishes 
for  ninepence.  Occasionally,  however,  Attwood  fa- 
voured me  with  a  visit,  or  gave  me  a  drive  behind  his 
great  cab-horse.  He  had  formed  a  whole  host  of  friends 
besides.  There  was  Fips,  the  barrister;  heaven  knows 
what  he  was  doing  at  Paris ;  and  Gortz,  the  West  Indian, 
who  was  there  on  the  same  business,  and  Flapper,  a  med- 
ical student, — all  these  three  I  met  one  night  at  Flap- 
per's rooms,  where  Jack  was  invited,  and  a  great 
"  spread  "  was  laid  in  honour  of  him. 

Jack  arrived  rather  late— he  looked  pale  and  agitated; 
and,  though  he  ate  no  supper,  he  drank  raw  brandy  in 
such  a  manner  as  made  Flapper's  eyes  wink :  the  poor  fel- 
low had  but  three  bottles,  and  Jack  bade  fair  to  swallow 
them  all.  However,  the  West  Indian  generously  reme- 
died the  evil,  and  producing  a  napoleon,  we  speedily  got 


150         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

the  change  for  it  in  the  shape  of  four  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne. 

Our  supper  was  uproariously  harmonious ;  Fips  sung 
the  good  "Old  Enghsh  Gentleman;"  Jack,  the  "British 
Grenadiers ;  "  and  your  humble  servant,  when  called 
upon,  sang  that  beautiful  ditty,  "  When  the  Bloom  is 
on  the  Rye,"  in  a  manner  that  drew  tears  from  every 
eye,  except  Flapper's,  who  was  asleep,  and  Jack's,  who 
was  singing  the  "  Bay  of  Biscay  O,"  at  the  same  time. 
Gortz  and  Fips  were  all  the  time  lunging  at  each  other 
with  a  pair  of  single-sticks,  the  barrister  having  a  very 
strong  notion  that  he  was  Richard  the  Third.  At  last 
Fips  hits  the  West  Indian  such  a  blow  across  his  sconce, 
that  the  other  grew  furious ;  he  seized  a  champagne-bot- 
tle, which  was,  providentially,  empty,  and  hurled  it 
across  the  room  at  Fips:  had  that  celebrated  barrister 
not  bowed  his  head  at  the  moment,  the  Queen's  Bench 
would  have  lost  one  of  its  most  eloquent  practitioners. 

Fips  stood  as  straight  as  he  could ;  his  cheek  was  pale 
with  wrath.  "  M-m-ister  Go-gortz,"  he  said,  "  I  always 
heard  you  were  a  blackguard ;  now  I  can  pr-pr-peperove 
it.  Flapper,  your  pistols!  every  ge-ge-genlmn  knows 
what  I  mean." 

Young  Mr.  Flapper  had  a  small  pair  of  pocket-pis- 
tols, which  the  tipsy  barrister  had  suddenly  remembered, 
and  with  which  he  proposed  to  sacrifice  the  West  Indian. 
Gortz  was  nothing  loth,  but  was  quite  as  valorous  as  the 
lawyer. 

Attwood,  who,  in  spite  of  his  potations,  seemed  the 
soberest  man  of  the  party,  had  much  enjoyed  the  scene, 
until  this  sudden  demand  for  the  weapons.  "  Pshaw!  " 
said  he,  eagerly,  "  don't  give  these  men  the  means  of 
murdering  each  other;  sit  down  and  let  us  have  another 
song."    But  they  would  not  be  still ;  and  Flapper  forth- 


A  GAMBLER'S   DEATH  151 

with  produced  his  pistol-case,  and  opened  it,  in  order 
that  the  duel  might  take  place  on  the  spot.  There  were 
no  pistols  there!  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Attwood, 
looking  much  confused;  "I — I  took  the  pistols  home 
with  me  to  clean  them!  " 

I  don't  know  what  there  was  in  his  tone,  or  in  the 
words,  but  we  were  sobered  all  of  a  sudden.  Attwood 
was  conscious  of  the  singular  eiFect  produced  by  him, 
for  he  blushed,  and  endeavoured  to  speak  of  other  things, 
but  we  could  not  bring  our  sj)irits  back  to  the  mark  again, 
and  soon  separated  for  the  night.  As  we  issued  into  the 
street  Jack  took  me  aside,  and  whispered,  "  Have  you  a 
napoleon,  Titmarsh,  in  your  purse?  "  Alas !  I  was  not  so 
rich.  My  reply  was,  that  I  was  coming  to  Jack,  only  in 
the  morning,  to  borrow  a  similar  sum. 

He  did  not  make  any  reply,  but  turned  away  home- 
ward :  I  never  heard  him  speak  another  word. 

***** 

Two  mornings  after  (for  none  of  our  party  met  on  the 
day  succeeding  the  supper) ,  I  was  awakened  by  my  por- 
ter, who  brought  a  pressing  letter  from  Mr.  Gortz :  — 

"  Dear  T. — I  wish  you  would  come  over  here  to  breakfast. 
There's  a  row  about  Attwood. — Yours  truly, 

"  Solomon  Gortz." 

I  immediately  set  forward  to  Gortz's;  he  lived  in  the 
Rue  du  Helder,  a  few  doors  from  Attwood's  new  lodg- 
ing. If  the  reader  is  curious  to  know  the  house  in  which 
the  catastrophe  of  this  history  took  place,  he  has  but  to 
march  some  twenty  doors  do\\  n  from  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens,  when  he  will  see  a  fine  door,  with  a  naked 
Cupid  shooting  at  him  from  the  hall,  and  a  Venus 
beckoning  him  up  the  stairs.  On  arriving  at  the  West 
Indian's,  at  about  mid-day  (it  was  a  Sunday  morning) , 


152  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

I  fouiid  that  gentleman  in  his  dressing-gown,  discussing, 
in  the  company  of  Mr.  Fips,  a  large  plate  of  bifteck  auoc 
pommes. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  row!  "  said  Gortz,  quoting  from  his 
letter; — "  Attwood's  off — have  a  bit  of  beefsteak?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  exclaimed  I,  adopting  the 
familiar  phraseology  of  my  acquaintances: — "  Attwood 
oiF? — has  he  cut  his  stick?  " 

*'  Not  bad,"  said  the  feeling  and  elegant  Fips — "  not 
such  a  bad  guess,  my  boy ;  but  he  has  not  exactly  cut  his 
stick." 

"  What  then?  " 

^^  Why,  his  throat."  The  man's  mouth  was  full  of 
bleeding  beef  as  he  uttered  this  gentlemanly  witticism. 

I  wish  I  could  say  that  I  was  myself  in  the  least 
affected  by  the  news.  I  did  not  joke  about  it  like  my 
friend  Fips ;  this  was  more  for  propriety's  sake  than  for 
feeling's :  but  for  my  old  school  acquaintance,  the  friend 
of  my  early  days,  the  merry  associate  of  the  last  few 
months,  I  own,  with  shame,  that  I  had  not  a  tear  or  a 
pang.  In  some  German  tale  there  is  an  account  of  a 
creature  most  beautiful  and  bewitching,  whom  all  men 
admire  and  follow ;  but  this  charming  and  fantastic  spirit 
only  leads  them,  one  by  one,  into  ruin,  and  then  leaves 
them.  The  novelist,  who  describes  her  beauty,  says  that 
his  heroine  is  a  fairy,  and  has  no  heart.  I  think  the 
intimacy  which  is  begotten  over  the  wine-bottle,  is  a 
spirit  of  this  nature ;  I  never  knew  a  good  feeling  come 
from  it,  or  an  honest  friendship  made  by  it ;  it  only  en- 
tices men  and  ruins  them ;  it  is  only  a  phantom  of  friend- 
ship and  feeling,  called  up  by  the  delirious  blood,  and  the 
wicked  spells  of  the  wine. 

But  to  drop  this  strain  of  moralizing  (in  which  the 


A  GAMBLER'S   DEATH  153 

writer  is  not  too  anxious  to  proceed,  for  he  cuts  in  it 
a  most  pitiful  figure) ,  we  passed  sundry  criticisms  upon 
poor  Attwood's  character,  expressed  our  horror  at  his 
death— which  sentiment  was  fully  proved  by  Mr.  Fips, 
who  declared  that  the  notion  of  it  made  him  feel  quite 
faint,  and  was  obliged  to  drink  a  large  glass  of  brandy ; 
and,  finally,  we  agreed  that  we  would  go  and  see  the 
poor  fellow's  corpse,  and  witness,  if  necessary,  his  burial. 

Flapper,  who  had  joined  us,  was  the  first  to  propose 
this  visit :  he  said  he  did  not  mind  the  fifteen  francs  which 
Jack  owed  him  for  billiards,  but  he  was  anxious  to 
get  hack  his  pistol.  Accordingly,  we  sallied  forth,  and 
speedily  arrived  at  the  hotel  which  Attwood  inhabited 
still.  He  had  occupied,  for  a  time,  very  fine  apartments 
in  this  house :  and  it  was  only  on  arriving  there  that  day 
that  we  found  he  had  been  gradually  driven  from  his 
magnificent  suite  of  rooms  au  premier,  to  a  little  cham- 
ber in  the  fifth  story:— we  mounted,  and  found  him.  It 
was  a  little  shabby  room,  with  a  few  articles  of  rickety 
furniture,  and  a  bed  in  an  alcove;  the  light  from  the 
one  window  was  falling  full  upon  the  bed  and  the  body. 
Jack  was  dressed  in  a  fine  lawn  shirt;  he  had  kept 
it,  poor  fellow,  to  die  in;  for  in  all  his  drawers  and  cup- 
boards there  was  not  a  single  article  of  clothing;  he  had 
pawned  everything  by  which  he  could  raise  a  penny 
—desk,  books,  dressing-case,  and  clothes;  and  not  a  sin- 
gle halfpenny  was  found  in  his  possession.^ 

He  was  lying  as  I  have  drawn  him,  one  hand  on  his 
breast,  the  other  falling  towards  the  ground.  There  was 
an  expression  of  perfect  calm  on  the  face,  and  no  mark 

1  In  order  to  account  for  these  trivial  details,  the  reader  must  be  told  that 
the  story  is,  for  the  chief  part,  a  fact;  and  that  the  little  sketch  in  this  pap:e 
was  taken  from  nature.  The  letter  was  likewise  a  copy  from  one  found  in  the 
manner  described. 


154 


THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK 


of  blood  to  stain  the  side  towards  the  hght.    On  the  other 

side,  however,  there  was  a  great  pool  of  black  blood,  and 

in  it  the  pistol ;  it  looked  more  like  a  toy  than  a  weapon 

to  take  away  the  life  of  this  vigorous  young  man.    In  his 

forehead,  at  the  side,  was  a  small  black  wound;  Jack's 

life  had  passed  through  it;  it  was  little  bigger  than  a 

mole. 

***** 


"  Regardez  un  peu,"  said  the  landlady,  "  messieurs, 
il  m'a  gate  trois  matelas,  et  il  me  doit  quarante  quatre 
francs." 

This  was  all  his  epitaph:  he  had  spoiled  three  mat- 
tresses, and  owed  the  landlady  four-and-forty  francs. 
In  the  whole  world  there  was  not  a  soul  to  love  him  or 
lament  him.  We,  his  friends,  were  looking  at  his  body 
more  as  an  object  of  curiosity,  watching  it  with  a  kind  of 
interest  with  which  one  follows  the  fifth  act  of  a  tragedy, 
and  leaving  it  with  the  same  feeling  with  which  one 
leaves  the  theatre  when  the  play  is  over  and  the  curtain 
is  down. 

Beside  Jack's  bed,  on  his  little  "  table  de  nuit,"  lay 
the  remains  of  his  last  meal,  and  an  open  letter,  which  we 


A   GAMBLER'S   DEATH  155 

read.     It  was  from  one  of  his  suspicious  acquaintances 
of  former  days,  and  ran  thus: — 

"  Ou  es  tu,  cher  Jack?  why  you  not  come  and  see  me — tu  me 
dois  de  I'argent,  entends  tu? — un  chapeau,  une  cachemire,  a  box 
of  the  Play.  Viens  demain  soir,  je  t'attendrai  at  eight  o^clock. 
Passage  des  Panoramas.     My  Sir  is  at  his  country. 

"  Adieu  a  demain. 

"  Samedi."  "  Fifine." 

^^»  H^^  1¥  *^  ^^* 

I  shuddered  as  I  walked  through  this  very  Passage 
des  Panoramas,  in  the  evening.  The  girl  was  there, 
pacing  to  and  fro,  and  looking  in  the  countenance  of 
every  passer-by,  to  recognize  Attwood.  "  Adieu  a  de- 
main!" — there  was  a  dreadful  meaning  in  the  words, 
which  the  writer  of  them  little  knew.  "  Adieu  a  de- 
main!  " — the  morrow  was  come,  and  the  soul  of  the  poor 
suicide  was  now  in  the  presence  of  God.  I  dare  not  think 
of  his  fate;  for,  except  in  the  fact  of  his  poverty  and 
desperation,  was  he  worse  than  any  of  us,  his  compan- 
ions, who  had  shared  his  debauches,  and  marched  with 
him  up  to  the  very  brink  of  the  grave  ? 

There  is  but  one  more  circumstance  to  relate  regard- 
ing poor  Jack — his  burial;  it  was  of  a  piece  with  his 
death. 

He  was  nailed  into  a  paltry  coffin  and  buried,  at  the 
expense  of  the  arrondissement,  in  a  nook  of  the  burial- 
place  beyond  the  Barriere  de  I'Etoile.  They  buried  him 
at  six  o'clock,  of  a  bitter  winter's  morning,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  an  English  clergyman  could  be  found 
to  read  a  service  over  his  grave.  The  three  men  who 
have  figured  in  this  history  acted  as  Jack's  mourners; 
and  as  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place  so  early  in  the 


156         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

morning,  these  men  sat  up  the  night  through,  and  were 
almost  drunk  as  they  followed  his  coffin  to  its  resting- 
place. 

MORAL 

"  When  we  turned  out  in  our  great-coats,"  said  one 
of  them  afterwards,  "  reeking  of  cigars  and  brandy-and- 

water,  d e,  sir,  we  quite  frightened  the  old  buck  of  a 

parson ;  he  did  not  much  like  our  company."  After  the 
ceremony  was  concluded,  these  gentlemen  were  very 
happy  to  get  home  to  a  warm  and  comfortable  breakfast, 
and  finished  the  day  royally  at  Frascati's. 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM 

ON    PRINCE    LOUIS    NAPOLEON's    WORK 

ANY  person  who  recollects  the  history  of  the  ab- 
xX  surd  outbreak  of  Strasburg,  in  which  Prince 
Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte  figured,  three  years  ago, 
must  remember  that,  however  silly  the  revolt  was,  how- 
ever foolish  its  pretext,  however  doubtful  its  aim,  and 
inexperienced  its  leader,  there  was,  nevertheless,  a  party, 
and  a  considerable  one  in  France,  that  were  not  unwill- 
ing to  lend  the  new  projectors  their  aid.  The  troops  who 
declared  against  the  Prince,  were,  it  was  said,  all  but 
willing  to  declare  for  him;  and  it  was  certain  that,  in 
many  of  the  regiments  of  the  army,  there  existed  a 
strong  spirit  of  disaffection,  and  an  eager  wish  for  the 
return  of  the  imperial  system  and  family. 

As  to  the  good  that  was  to  be  derived  from  the  change, 
that  is  another  question.  Why  the  Emperor  of  the 
French  should  be  better  than  the  King  of  the  French, 
or  the  King  of  the  French  better  than  the  King  of 
France  and  Navarre,  it  is  not  our  business  to  inquire; 
but  all  the  three  monarchs  have  no  lack  of  supporters; 
republicanism  has  no  lack  of  supporters;  St.  Simonian- 
ism  was  followed  by  a  respectable  body  of  admirers; 
Robespierrism  has  a  select  party  of  friends.  If,  in  a 
country  where  so  many  quacks  have  had  their  day.  Prince 
Louis  Napoleon  thought  he  might  renew  the  imperial 
quackery,  why  should  he  not?  It  has  recollections  with  it 
that  must  always  be  dear  to  a  gallant  nation;  it  has 

157 


158  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

certain  claptraps  in  its  vocabulary  that  can  never  fail  to 
inflame  a  vain,  restless,  grasping,  disappointed  one. 

In  the  first  place,  and  don't  let  us  endeavour  to  dis- 
guise it,  they  hate  us.  Not  all  the  protestations  of 
friendship,  not  all  the  wisdom  of  Lord  Palmerston,  not 
all  the  diplomacy  of  our  distinguished  plenipotentiary, 
Mr.  Henry  Lytton  Bulwer — and  let  us  add,  not  all  the 
benefit  which  both  countries  would  derive  from  the  alli- 
ance— can  make  it,  in  our  times  at  least,  permanent  and 
cordial.  They  hate  us.  The  Carlist  organs  revile  us 
with  a  querulous  fury  that  never  sleeps;  the  moderate 
party,  if  they  admit  the  utility  of  our  alliance,  are  con- 
tinually pointing  out  our  treachery,  our  insolence,  and 
our  monstrous  infractions  of  it ;  and  for  the  Republicans, 
as  sure  as  the  morning  comes,  the  columns  of  their  jour- 
nals thunder  out  volleys  of  fierce  denunciations  against 
our  unfortunate  country.  They  live  by  feeding  the 
natural  hatred  against  England,  by  keeping  old  wounds 
open,  by  recurring  ceaselessly  to  the  history  of  old  quar- 
rels, and  as  in  these  we,  by  God's  help,  by  land  and 
by  sea,  in  old  times  and  late,  have  had  the  uppermost, 
they  perpetuate  the  shame  and  mortification  of  the  los- 
ing party,  the  bitterness  of  past  defeats,  and  the  eager 
desire  to  avenge  them.  A  party  which  knows  how  to 
eooploiter  this  hatred  will  always  be  popular  to  a  certain 
extent ;  and  the  imperial  scheme  has  this,  at  least,  among 
its  conditions. 

Then  there  is  the  favourite  claptrap  of  the  "  natural 
frontier."  The  Frenchman  yearns  to  be  bounded  by  the 
Rhine  and  the  Alps ;  and  next  follows  the  cry,  "  Let 
France  take  her  place  among  nations,  and  direct,  as  she 
ought  to  do,  the  affairs  of  Europe."  These  are  the  two 
chief  articles  contained  in  the  new  imperial  programme, 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM       159 

if  we  may  credit  the  journal  which  has  been  estabhshed 
to  advocate  the  cause.  A  natural  boundary— stand 
among  the  nations— popular  development— Russian  al- 
liance, and  a  reduction  of  la  'per fide  A  Ibion  to  its  proper 
insignificance.  As  yet  we  know  little  more  of  the  plan : 
and  )^et  such  foundations  are  sufficient  to  build  a  party 
upon,  and  with  such  windy  weapons  a  substantial  Gov- 
ernment is  to  be  overthrown ! 

In  order  to  give  these  doctrines,  such  as  they  are, 
a  chance  of  finding  favour  with  his  countrymen,  Prince 
Louis  has  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  refer  to  a 
former  great  professor  of  them— his  uncle  Napoleon. 
His  attempt  is  at  once  pious  and  prudent;  it  ex- 
alts the  memory  of  the  uncle,  and  furthers  the  inter- 
ests of  the  nephew,  who  attempts  to  show  what  Na- 
poleon's ideas  really  were;  what  good  had  already 
resulted  from  the  practice  of  them;  how  cruelly  they 
had  been  thwarted  by  foreign  wars  and  difficulties; 
and  what  vast  benefits  would  have  resulted  from  them; 
ay,  and  (it  is  reasonable  to  conclude)  might  still,  if 
the  French  nation  would  be  wise  enough  to  pitch 
upon  a  governor  that  would  continue  the  interrupted 
scheme.  It  is,  however,  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
Emperor  Napoleon  had  certain  arguments  in  favour  of 
his  opinions  for  the  time  being,  which  his  nephew  has  not 
employed.  On  the  13th  Vendemiaire,  when  General 
Bonaparte  believed  in  the  excellence  of  a  Directory,  it 
may  be  remembered  that  he  aided  his  opinions  by  forty 
pieces  of  artillerj^,  and  by  Colonel  Murat  at  the  head  of 
his  dragoons.  There  was  no  resisting  such  a  philosopher ; 
the  Directory  was  established  forthwith,  and  the  sacred 
cause  of  the  minority  triumphed.  In  like  manner,  when 
the  General  was  convinced  of  the  weakness  of  the  Di- 


160  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

rectory,  and  saw  fully  the  necessity  of  establishing  a 
Consulate,  what  were  his  arguments?  Moreau,  Lannes, 
Murat,  Berthier,  Leclerc,  Lefebvre— gentle  apostles  of 
the  truth! — marched  to  St.  Cloud,  and  there,  with  fixed 
bayonets,  caused  it  to  prevail.  Error  vanished  in  an 
instant.  At  once  five  hundred  of  its  high-priests  tum- 
bled out  of  windows,  and  lo!  three  Consuls  appeared  to 
guide  the  destinies  of  France!  How  much  more  expe- 
ditious, reasonable,  and  clinching  was  this  argument 
of  the  18th  Brumaire,  than  any  one  that  can  be  found  in 
any  pamphlet !  A  fig  for  your  duodecimos  and  octavos ! 
Talk  about  points,  there  are  none  like  those  at  the  end 
of  a  bayonet ;  and  the  most  powerful  of  styles  is  a  good 
rattling  "  article  "  from  a  nine-pounder. 

At  least  this  is  our  interpretation  of  the  manner  in 
which  were  always  propagated  the  Idees  Naimleon- 
iennes.  Not  such,  however,  is  Prince  Louis's  belief ;  and, 
if  you  wish  to  go  along  with  him  in  opinion,  you  will 
discover  that  a  more  liberal,  peaceable,  prudent  Prince 
never  existed:  you  will  read  that  "  the  mission  of  Napo- 
leon "  was  to  be  the  ''  testamentary  executor  of  the  revo- 
lution; "  and  the  Prince  should  have  added  the  legatee ; 
or,  more  justly  still,  as  well  as  the  executor,  he  should  be 
called  the  executioner ,  and  then  his  title  would  be  com- 
plete. In  Vendemiaire,  the  military  TartufFe,  he  threw 
aside  the  Revolution's  natural  heirs,  and  made  her,  as  it 
were,  alter  her  will;  on  the  18th  of  Brumaire  he  strangled 
her,  and  on  the  19th  seized  on  her  property,  and  kept  it 
until  force  deprived  him  of  it.  Illustrations,  to  be  sure, 
are  no  arguments,  but  the  example  is  the  Prince's,  not 
ours. 

In  the  Prince's  eyes,  then,  his  uncle  is  a  god;  of  all 
monarchs,  the  most  wise,  upright,  and  merciful.    Thirty 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM       161 

years  ago  the  opinion  had  niilHons  of  supporters ;  while 
millions  again  were  ready  to  avouch  the  exact  contrary. 
It  is  curious  to  think  of  the  former  difference  of  opinion 
concerning  Napoleon ;  and,  in  reading  his  nephew's  rap- 
turous encomiums  of  him,  one  goes  back  to  the  days 
when  we  ourselves  were  as  loud  and  mad  in  his  dispraise. 
Who  does  not  remember  his  own  personal  hatred  and  hor- 
ror, twenty-five  years  ago,  for  the  man  whom  we  used 
to  call  the  "bloody  Corsican  upstart  and  assassin?" 
What  stories  did  we  not  believe  of  him?— what  murders, 
rapes,  robberies,  not  lay  to  his  charge?— we  who  were 
living  within  a  few  miles  of  his  territory,  and  might,  by 
books  and  newspapers,  be  made  as  well  acquainted  with 
his  merits  or  demerits  as  any  of  his  own  countrymen. 

Then  was  the  age  when  the  Idees  Napoleoniennes 
might  have  passed  through  many  editions ;  for  while  we 
were  thus  outrageously  bitter,  our  neighbours  were  as 
extravagantly  attached  to  him  by  a  strange  infatuation 
— adored  him  like  a  god,  whom  we  chose  to  consider  as 
a  fiend;  and  vowed  that,  under  his  government,  their 
nation  had  attained  its  highest  pitch  of  grandeur  and 
glory.  In  revenge  there  existed  in  England  (as  is 
proved  by  a  thousand  authentic  documents)  a  monster 
so  hideous,  a  tyrant  so  ruthless  and  bloody,  that  the 
world's  history  cannot  show  his  parallel.  This  ruffian's 
name  was,  during  the  early  part  of  the  French  revolu- 
tion, Pittetcobourg.  Pittetcobourg's  emissaries  were  in 
every  corner  of  France;  Pittetcobourg's  gold  chinked 
in  the  pockets  of  every  traitor  in  Europe;  it  menaced 
the  life  of  the  god-like  Robespierre ;  it  drove  into  cellars 
and  fits  of  delirium  even  the  gentle  philanthropist  Marat ; 
it  fourteen  times  caused  the  dagger  to  be  lifted  against 
the  bosom  of  the  First  Consul,  Emperor,  and  King, 


162         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

— that  first,  great,  glorious,  irresistible,  cowardly,  con- 
temptible, bloody  hero  and  fiend,  Bonaparte,  before 
mentioned. 

On  our  side  of  the  Channel  we  have  had  leisure,  long 
since,  to  re-consider  our  verdict  against  Napoleon; 
though,  to  be  sure,  we  have  not  changed  our  opinion 
about  Pittetcobourg.  After  five-and-thirty  years  all 
parties  bear  witness  to  his  honesty,  and  speak  with 
affectionate  reverence  of  his  patriotism,  his  genius,  and 
his  private  virtue.  In  France,  however,  or,  at  least, 
among  certain  parties  in  France,  there  has  been  no  such 
modification  of  opinion.  With  the  Rejiublicans,  Pittet- 
cobourg is  Pittetcobourg  still, — crafty,  bloody,  seeking 
whom  he  may  devour;  and  per  fide  Albion  more  perfidi- 
ous than  ever.  This  hatred  is  the  point  of  union  be- 
tween the  Republic  and  the  Empire ;  it  has  been  fostered 
ever  since,  and  must  be  continued  by  Prince  Louis,  if  he 
would  hope  to  conciliate  both  parties. 

With  regard  to  the  Emperor,  then,  Prince  Louis 
erects  to  his  memory  as  fine  a  monument  as  his  wits  can 
raise.  One  need  not  say  that  the  imperial  apologist's 
opinion  should  be  received  with  the  utmost  caution;  for 
a  man  who  has  such  a  hero  for  an  uncle  may  naturally  be 
proud  of  and  partial  to  him;  and  when  this  nephew  of 
the  great  man  would  be  his  heir,  likewise,  and,  bear- 
ing his  name,  step  also  into  his  imperial  shoes,  one  may 
reasonably  look  for  much  affectionate  panegyric.  "  The 
empire  was  the  best  of  empires,"  cries  the  Prince; 
and  possibly  it  was;  undoubtedly,  the  Prince  thinks  it 
was;  but  he  is  the  very  last  person  who  would  convince 
a  man  with  the  proper  suspicious  impartiality.  One  re- 
members a  certain  consultation  of  politicians  which  is 
recorded  in  the  Spelling-book;  and  the  opinion  of  that 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM       163 

patriotic  sage  who  avowed  that,  for  a  real  blameless  con- 
stitution, an  impenetrable  shield  for  liberty,  and  cheap 
defence  of  nations,  there  was  nothing  like  leather. 

Let  us  examine  some  of  the  Prince's  article.  If  we 
may  be  allowed  humbly  to  express  an  opinion,  his  leather 
is  not  only  quite  insufficient  for  those  vast  public  pur- 
poses for  which  he  destines  it,  but  is,  moreover,  and 
in  itself,  very  bad  leather.  The  hides  are  poor,  small, 
unsound  slips  of  skin ;  or,  to  drop  this  cobbling  metaphor, 
the  style  is  not  particularly  brilliant,  the  facts  not  very 
startling,  and,  as  for  the  conclusions,  one  may  differ  with 
almost  every  one  of  them.  Here  is  an  extract  from  his 
first  chapter,  "  on  governments  in  general:  " — 

"  I  speak  it  with  regret,  I  can  see  but  two  govern- 
ments, at  this  day,  which  fulfil  the  mission  that  Provi- 
dence has  confided  to  them;  they  are  the  two  colossi  at 
the  end  of  the  world;  one  at  the  extremity  of  the  old 
world,  the  other  at  the  extremity  of  the  new.  Whilst 
our  old  European  centre  is  as  a  volcano,  consuming  itself 
in  its  crater,  the  two  nations  of  the  East  and  West, 
march,  without  hesitation,  towards  perfection;  the  one 
under  the  will  of  a  single  individual,  the  other  under 
liberty. 

"  Providence  has  confided  to  the  United  States  of 
North  America  the  task  of  peopling  and  civilizing  that 
immense  territory  which  stretches  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  South  Sea,  and  from  the  North  Pole  to  the  Equator. 
The  Government,  which  is  only  a  simple  administration, 
has  only  hitherto  been  called  upon  to  put  in  practice  the 
old  adage,  Laissez  faire,  laissez  passer,  in  order  to  fa- 
vour that  irresistible  instinct  which  pushes  the  people 
of  America  to  the  west. 

"  In  Russia  it  is  to  the  imperial  dynasty  that  is  owing 


164  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

all  the  vast  progress  which,  in  a  century  and  a  half,  has 
rescued  that  empire  from  barbarism.  The  imperial 
power  must  contend  against  all  the  ancient  prejudices  of 
our  old  Europe :  it  must  centralise,  as  far  as  possible,  all 
the  j)owers  of  the  state  in  the  hands  of  one  person,  in 
order  to  destroy  the  abuses  which  the  feudal  and  com- 
munal franchises  have  served  to  perpetuate.  The  last 
alone  can  hope  to  receive  from  it  the  improvements  which 
it  expects. 

"  But  thou,  France  of  Henry  IV.,  of  Louis  XIV.,  of 
Carnot,  of  Napoleon — thou,  who  wert  always  for  the 
west  of  Europe  the  source  of  progress,  who  possessest  in 
thyself  the  two  great  pillars  of  empire,  the  genius  for  the 
arts  of  peace  and  the  genius  of  war — hast  thou  no  further 
mission  to  fulfil?  Wilt  thou  never  cease  to  waste  thy 
force  and  energies  in  intestine  struggles?  No;  such  can- 
not be  thy  destiny:  the  day  will  soon  come,  when,  to 
govern  thee,  it  will  be  necessary  to  understand  that  thy 
part  is  to  place  in  all  treaties  thy  sword  of  Brennus  on 
the  side  of  civilization." 

These  are  the  conclusions  of  the  Prince's  remarks  upon 
governments  in  general;  and  it  must  be  supposed  that 
the  reader  is  very  little  wiser  at  the  end  than  at  the  be- 
ginning. But  two  governments  in  the  world  fulfil  their 
mission:  the  one  government,  which  is  no  government; 
the  other,  which  is  a  despotism.  The  duty  of  France  is 
in  all  treaties  to  place  her  sword  of  Brennus  in  the  scale 
of  civilization.  Without  quarrelling  with  the  somewhat 
confused  language  of  the  latter  proposition,  may  we 
ask  what,  in  heaven's  name,  is  the  meaning  of  all  the 
three?  What  is  this  ^pee  de  Brennus?  and  how  is  France 
to  use  it?  Where  is  the  great  source  of  political  truth, 
from  which,  flowing  pure,  we  trace  American  repub- 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM       165 

licanism  in  one  stream,  Russian  despotism  in  another? 
Vastly  prosperous  is  the  great  repubhc,  if  you  will:  if 
dollars  and  cents  constitute  happiness,  there  is  plenty 
for  all:  but  can  any  one,  who  has  read  of  the  American 
doings  in  the  late  frontier  troubles,  and  the  daily  dis- 
putes on  the  slave  question,  praise  the  Governmeiit  of 
the  States? — a  Government  which  dares  not  punish 
homicide  or  arson  performed  before  its  very  eyes,  and 
which  the  pirates  of  Texas  and  the  pirates  of  Canada 
can  brave  at  their  will?  There  is  no  government,  but  a 
prosperous  anarchy ;  as  the  Prince's  other  favourite  gov- 
ernment is  a  prosperous  slavery.  What,  then,  is  to  be  the 
epee  de  Brennus  government?  Is  it  to  be  a  mixture  of 
the  two?  "  Society,"  writes  the  Prince,  axiomatically, 
*'  contains  in  itself  two  principles— the  one  of  progress 
and  immortality,  the  other  of  disease  and  disorganiza- 
tion." No  doubt;  and  as  the  one  tends  towards  liberty, 
so  the  other  is  only  to  be  cured  by  order:  and  then,  with 
a  singular  felicity.  Prince  Louis  picks  us  out  a  couple  of 
governments,  in  one  of  which  the  common  regulating 
power  is  as  notoriously  too  weak,  as  it  is  in  the  other  too 
strong,  and  talks  in  rapturous  terms  of  the  manner  in 
which  they  fulfil  their  "  providential  mission!  " 

From  these  considerations  on  things  in  general,  the 
Prince  conducts  us  to  Napoleon  in  particular,  and  enters 
largely  into  a  discussion  of  the  merits  of  the  imperial 
system.  Our  author  speaks  of  the  Emperor's  advent  in 
the  following  grandiose  way: — 

"  Napoleon,  on  arriving  at  the  public  stage,  saw  that 
his  part  was  to  be  the  testamentary  executor  of  the  Rev- 
olution. The  destructive  fire  of  parties  was  extinct ;  and 
when  the  Revolution,  dying,  but  not  vanquished,  dele- 
gated to  Napoleon  the  accomplishment  of  her  last  will. 


166  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

she  said  to  him, '  EstabHsh  upon  soHd  bases  the  principal 
result  of  my  eiForts.  Unite  divided  Frenchmen.  De- 
feat feudal  Europe  that  is  leagued  against  me.  Cica- 
trize my  wounds.  Enlighten  the  nations.  Execute  that 
in  width,  which  I  have  had  to  perform  in  depth.  Be 
for  Europe  what  I  have  been  for  France.  And,  even 
if  you  must  water  the  tree  of  civilization  with  your  blood 
— if  you  must  see  your  projects  misunderstood,  and 
your  sons  without  a  country,  wandering  over  the  face 
of  the  earth,  never  abandon  the  sacred  cause  of  the 
French  people.  Insure  its  triumph  by  all  the  means 
which  genius  can  discover  and  humanity  approve.' 

"  This  grand  mission  Napoleon  performed  to  the  end. 
His  task  was  difficult.  He  had  to  place  upon  new  princi- 
ples a  society  still  boiling  with  hatred  and  revenge ;  and 
to  use,  for  building  up,  the  same  instruments  which  had 
been  employed  for  pulling  down. 

"  The  common  lot  of  every  new  truth  that  arises,  is 
to  wound  rather  than  to  convince — rather  than  to  gain 
proselytes,  to  awaken  fear.  For,  oppressed  as  it  long 
has  been,  it  rushes  forward  with  additional  force ;  having 
to  encounter  obstacles,  it  is  compelled  to  combat  them, 
and  overthrow  them ;  until,  at  length,  comprehended  and 
adopted  by  the  generality,  it  becomes  the  basis  of  new 
social  order. 

"  Liberty  will  follow  the  same  march  as  the  Christian 
religion.  Armed  with  death  from  the  ancient  society  of 
Rome,  it  for  a  long  while  excited  the  hatred  and  fear 
of  the  people.  At  last,  by  force  of  martyrdoms  and 
persecutions,  the  religion  of  Christ  penetrated  into  the 
conscience  and  the  soul;  it  soon  had  kings  and  armies 
at  its  orders,  and  Constantine  and  Charlemagne  bore 
it  triumphant  throughout  Europe.     Religion  then  laid 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM       167 

down  her  arms  of  war.  It  laid  open  to  all  the  principles 
of  peace  and  order  which  it  contained;  it  became  the 
prop  of  Government,  as  it  was  the  organizing  element 
of  society.  Thus  will  it  be  with  liberty.  In  1793  it 
frightened  people  and  sovereigns  alike;  then,  having 
clothed  itself  in  a  milder  garb,  it  insinuated  itself  every- 
where in  the  train  of  our  battalions.  In  1815  all  parties 
adopted  its  flag,  and  armed  themselves  with  its  moral 
force — covered  themselves  with  its  colours.  The  adop- 
tion was  not  sincere,  and  liberty  was  soon  obliged  to  re- 
assume  its  warlike  accoutrements.  With  the  contest 
their  fears  returned.  Let  us  hope  that  they  will  soon 
cease,  and  that  liberty  will  soon  resume  her  peaceful 
standards,  to  quit  them  no  more. 

"  The  Emperor  Napoleon  contributed  more  than  any 
one  else  towards  accelerating  the  reign  of  liberty,  by 
saving  the  moral  influence  of  the  revolution,  and  dimin- 
ishing the  fears  which  it  imposed.  Without  the  Con- 
sulate and  the  Empire,  the  revolution  would  have  been 
only  a  grand  drama,  leaving  grand  revolutions  but  no 
traces:  the  revolution  would  have  been  drowned  in  the 
counter-revolution.  The  contrary,  however,  was  the 
case.  Napoleon  rooted  the  revolution  in  France,  and 
introduced,  throughout  Europe,  the  principal  benefits 
of  the  crisis  of  1789.  To  use  his  own  words,  '  He  puri- 
fied the  revolution,  he  confirmed  kings,  and  ennobled 
people.  He  purified  the  revolution  in  separating  the 
truths  which  it  contained  from  the  passions  that,  during 
its  delirium,  disfigured  it.  He  ennobled  the  people  in 
giving  them  the  consciousness  of  their  force,  and  those 
institutions  which  raise  men  in  their  own  eyes.  The 
Emperor  may  be  considered  as  the  Messiah  of  the  new 
ideas;  for— and  we  must  confess  it— in  the  moments 


168         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

immediately  succeeding  a  social  revolution,  it  is  not  so 
essential  to  put  rigidly  into  practice  all  the  propositions 
resulting  from  the  new  theory,  but  to  become  master  of 
the  regenerative  genius,  to  identify  one's  self  with  the 
sentiments  of  the  people,  and  boldly  to  direct  them 
towards  the  desired  point.  To  accomplish  such  a  task 
your  fibre  should  respond  to  that  of  the  people,  as  the 
Emperor  said;  you  should  feel  like  it,  your  interests 
should  be  so  intimately  raised  with  its  own,  that  you 
should  vanquish  or  fall  together." 

Let  us  take  breath  after  these  big  phrases, — grand 
round  figures  of  speech, — which,  when  put  together, 
amount,  like  certain  other  combinations  of  round  figures, 
to  exactly  0.  We  shall  not  stop  to  argue  the  merits 
and  demerits  of  Prince  Louis's  notable  comparison  be- 
tween the  Christian  religion  and  the  Imperial-revolution- 
ary system.  There  are  many  blunders  in  the  above  ex- 
tract as  we  read  it;  blundering  metaphors,  blundering 
arguments,  and  blundering  assertions;  but  this  is  surely 
the  grandest  blunder  of  all;  and  one  wonders  at  the 
blindness  of  the  legislator  and  historian  who  can  ad- 
vance such  a  parallel.  And  what  are  we  to  say  of  the 
legacy  of  the  dying  revolution  to  Napoleon?  Revolu- 
tions do  not  die,  and,  on  their  death-beds,  making  fine 
speeches,  hand  over  their  property  to  young  officers  of 
artillery.  We  have  all  read  the  history  of  his  rise. 
The  constitution  of  the  year  III.  was  carried.  Old  men 
of  the  Montague,  disguised  royalists,  Paris  sections, 
Pittetcohourg,  above  all,  with  his  money-bags,  thought 
that  here  was  a  fine  opportunity  for  a  revolt,  and  op- 
posed the  new  constitution  in  arms:  the  new  constitu- 
tion had  knowledge  of  a  young  officer,  who  would  not 
hesitate  to  defend  its  cause,  and  who  effectually  beat  the 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM       169 

majority.  The  tale  may  be  found  in  every  account  of 
the  revolution,  and  the  rest  of  his  story  need  not  be  told. 
We  know  every  step  that  he  took :  we  know  how,  by  doses 
of  cannon-balls  promptly  administered,  he  cured  the 
fever  of  the  sections — that  fever  which  another  camp- 
physician  (Menou)  declined  to  prescribe  for;  we  know 
how  he  abolished  the  Directory ;  and  how  the  Consulship 
came ;  and  then  the  Empire ;  and  then  the  disgrace,  exile, 
and  lonely  death.  Has  not  all  this  been  written  by  his- 
torians in  all  tongues? — by  memoir- writing  pages,  cham- 
berlains, marshals,  lackeys,  secretaries,  contemporaries, 
and  ladies  of  honour?  Not  a  word  of  miracle  is  there  in 
all  this  narration;  not  a  word  of  celestial  missions,  or 
political  Messiahs.  From  Napoleon's  rise  to  his  fall,  the 
bayonet  marches  alongside  of  him :  now  he  points  it  at  the 
tails  of  the  scampering  "  five  hundred," — now  he  charges 
with  it  across  the  bloody  planks  of  Areola— now  he  flies 
before  it  over  the  fatal  plain  of  Waterloo. 

Unwilling,  however,  as  he  may  be  to  grant  that  there 
are  any  spots  in  the  character  of  his  hero's  government, 
the  Prince  is,  nevertheless,  obliged  to  allow  that  such 
existed;  that  the  Emperor's  manner  of  rule  was  a  little 
more  abrupt  and  dictatorial  than  might  possibly  be 
agreeable.  For  this  the  Prince  has  always  an  answer 
ready — it  is  the  same  poor  one  that  Napoleon  uttered  a 
million  of  times  to  his  companions  in  exile — the  excuse 
of  necessity.  He  tcould  have  been  very  liberal,  but  that 
the  people  were  not  fit  for  it;  or  that  the  cursed  war 
prevented  him^p|)r  any  other  reason  why.  His  fii'st 
duty,  however,  says  his  apologist,  was  to  form  a  general 
union  of  Frenchmen,  and  he  set  about  his  plan  in  this 
wise: — 

"  Let  us  not  forget,  that  all  which  Napoleon  under- 


170  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

took,  in  order  to  create  a  general  fusion,  he  performed 
without  renouncing  the  princi]3les  of  the  revolution.  He 
recalled  the  emigres,  without  touching  upon  the  law  by 
which  their  goods  had  been  confiscated  and  sold  as  pub- 
lic property.  He  re-established  the  Catholic  religion  at 
the  same  time  that  he  proclaimed  the  liberty  of  con- 
science, and  endowed  equally  the  ministers  of  all  sects. 
He  caused  himself  to  be  consecrated  by  the  Sovereign 
Pontiff,  without  conceding  to  the  Pope's  demand  any 
of  the  liberties  of  the  Gallican  church.  He  married  a 
daughter  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  without  abandon- 
ing any  of  the  rights  of  France  to  the  conquests  she  had 
made.  He  re-established  noble  titles,  without  attaching 
to  them  any  privileges  or  prerogatives,  and  these  titles 
were  conferred  on  all  ranks,  on  all  services,  on  all  pro- 
fessions. Under  the  empire  all  idea  of  caste  was  de- 
stroyed; no  man  ever  thought  of  vaunting  his  pedigree 
— no  man  ever  was  asked  how  he  was  born,  but  what  he 
had  done. 

"  The  first  quality  of  a  people  which  aspires  to  liberal 
government,  is  respect  to  the  law.  Now,  a  law  has  no 
other  power  than  lies  in  the  interest  which  each  citizen 
has  to  defend  or  to  contravene  it.  In  order  to  make  a 
people  respect  the  law,  it  was  necessary  that  it  should  be 
executed  in  the  interest  of  all,  and  should  consecrate  the 
principle  of  equality  in  all  its  extension.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  restore  the  prestige  with  which  the  Government 
had  been  formerly  invested,  and  to  make  the  principles 
of  the  revolution  take  root  in  the  public  manners.  At  the 
commencement  of  a  new  society,  it  is  the  legislator  who 
makes  or  corrects  the  manners;  later,  it  is  the  manners 
which  make  the  law,  or  preserve  it,  from  age  to  age  in- 
tact." 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS   SYSTEM       171 

Some  of  these  fusions  are  amusing.  No  man  in  the 
empire  was  asked  how  he  was  born,  but  what  he  had  done ; 
and,  accordingly,  as  a  man's  actions  were  sufficient  to 
illustrate  him,  the  Emperor  took  care  to  make  a  host 
of  new  title-bearers,  princes,  dukes,  barons,  and  what 
not,  whose  rank  has  descended  to  their  children.  He 
married  a  princess  of  Austria;  but,  for  all  that,  did  not 
abandon  his  conquests— perhaps  not  actually;  but  he 
abandoned  his  allies,  and,  eventually,  his  whole  king- 
dom. Who  does  not  recollect  his  answer  to  the  Poles, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  Russian  campaign?  But 
for  Napoleon's  imperial  father-in-law,  Poland  would 
have  been  a  kingdom,  and  his  race,  perhaps,  imperial 
still.  Why  was  he  to  fetch  this  princess  out  of  Austria 
to  make  heirs  for  his  throne?  Why  did  not  the  man  of 
the  people  marry  a  girl  of  the  people?  Why  must  he 
have  a  Pope  to  crown  him— half-a-dozen  kings  for 
brothers,  and  a  bevy  of  aides-de-camp  dressed  out  like  so 
many  mountebanks  from  Astley's,  with  dukes'  coronets, 
and  grand  blue  velvet  marshals'  batons?  We  have  re- 
peatedly his  words  for  it.  He  wanted  to  create  an  aris- 
tocracy—  another  acknowledgment  on  his  part  of  the 
Republican  dilemma — another  apology  for  the  revolu- 
tionary blunder.  To  keep  the  republic  within  bounds,  a 
despotism  is  necessary;  to  rally  round  the  despotism,  an 
aristocracy  must  be  created ;  and  for  what  have  we  been 
labouring  all  this  while  ?  for  what  have  bastiles  been  bat- 
tered down,  and  kings'  heads  hurled,  as  a  gage  of  battle, 
in  the  face  of  armed  Europe?  To  have  a  Duke  of 
Otranto  instead  of  a  Duke  de  la  Tremouille,  and  Em- 
peror Stork  in  place  of  King  Log.  O  lame  conclusion! 
Is  the  blessed  revolution  which  is  prophesied  for  us  in 
England  only  to  end  in  establishing  a  Prince  Fergus 


172  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

O'Connor,  or  a  Cardinal  Wade,  or  a  Duke  Daniel  Whit- 
tle Harvey?  Great  as  those  patriots  are,  we  love  them 
better  under  their  simple  family  names,  and  scorn  titles 
and  coronets. 

At  present,  in  France,  the  delicate  matter  of  titles 
seems  to  be  better  arranged,  any  gentleman,  since  the 
Revolution,  being  free  to  adopt  any  one  he  may  fix 
upon;  and  it  appears  that  the  Crown  no  longer  confers 
any  patents  of  nobility,  but  contents  itself  with  saying, 
as  in  the  case  of  M.  de  Pontois,  the  other  day,  "  Le  Roi 
trouve  convenable  that  you  take  the  title  of,"  &c. 

To  execute  the  legacy  of  the  revolution,  then;  to 
fulfil  his  providential  mission;  to  keep  his  place, — in 
other  words,  for  the  simplest  are  always  the  best,— to 
keep  his  place,  and  to  keep  his  Government  in  decent 
order,  the  Emperor  was  obliged  to  establish  a  military 
despotism,  to  re-establish  honours  and  titles ;  it  was  neces- 
sary, as  the  Prince  confesses,  to  restore  the  old  prestige 
of  the  Government,  in  order  to  make  the  people  respect 
it;  and  he  adds— a  truth  which  one  hardly  would  expect 
from  him, — "  At  the  commencement  of  a  new  society,  it 
is  the  legislator  w^ho  makes  and  corrects  the  manners; 
later,  it  is  the  manners  which  preserve  the  laws."  Of 
course,  and  here  is  the  great  risk  that  all  revolutionizing 
people  run— they  must  tend  to  despotism;  "they  must 
personify  themselves  in  a  man,"  is  the  Prince's  phrase; 
and,  according  as  is  his  temperament  or  disposition 
— according  as  he  is  a  Cromwell,  a  Washington,  or  a  Na- 
poleon— the  revolution  becomes  tyranny  or  freedom, 
prospers  or  falls. 

Somewhere  in  the  St.  Helena  memorials,  Napoleon 
reports  a  message  of  his  to  the  Pope.  "  Tell  the  Pope," 
he  says  to  an  archbishop,  "  to  remember  that  I  have  six 


NAPOLEON  AND   HIS   SYSTEM       173 

hundred  thousand  armed  Frenchmen,  qui  marcheront 
avec  7Jioij  pour  moi,  et  comme  moiJ"  And  this  is  the 
legacy  of  the  revolution,  the  advancement  of  free- 
dom! A  hundred  volumes  of  imperial  special  pleading 
will  not  avail  against  such  a  speech  as  this — one  so  in- 
solent, and  at  the  same  time  so  humiliating,  which  gives 
unwittingly  the  whole  of  the  Emperor's  progress, 
strength,  and  weakness.  The  six  hundred  thousand 
armed  Frenchmen  were  used  up,  and  the  whole  fabric 
falls;  the  six  hundred  thousand  are  reduced  to  sixty 
thousand,  and  straightway  all  the  rest  of  the  fine  im- 
perial scheme  vanishes :  the  miserable  senate,  so  crawling 
and  abject  but  now,  becomes  of  a  sudden  endowed  with 
a  wondrous  independence;  the  miserable  sham  nobles, 
sham  empress,  sham  kings,  dukes,  princes,  chamberlains, 
pack  up  their  plumes  and  embroideries,  pounce  upon 
what  money  and  plate  they  can  lay  their  hands  on,  and 
when  the  allies  appear  before  Paris,  when  for  courage 
and  manliness  there  is  yet  hope,  when  with  fierce  marches 
hastening  to  the  rehef  of  his  capital,  bursting  through 
ranks  upon  ranks  of  the  enemy,  and  crushing  or  scat- 
tering them  from  the  path  of  his  swift  and  victorious 
despair,  the  Emperor  at  last  is  at  home,— where  are  the 
great  dignitaries  and  the  lieutenant-generals  of  the  em- 
pire? Where  is  Maria  Louisa,  the  Empress  Eagle,  with 
her  little  callow  King  of  Rome?  Is  she  going  to  defend 
hernest  and  her  eaglet?  Not  she.  Empress-queen,  lieu- 
tenant-general, and  court  dignitaries,  are  off  on  the 
wings  of  all  the  winds— profligati  sunt,  they  are  away 
with  the  money-bags,  and  Louis  Stanislas  Xavier  rolls 
into  the  palace  of  his  fathers. 

With  regard  to  Napoleon's  excellences  as  an  admin- 
istrator,  a  legislator,   a   constructor  of   public   works. 


174*  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

and  a  skilful  financier,  his  nephew  speaks  with  much 
diffuse  praise,  and  few  persons,  we  suppose  will  be 
disposed  to  contradict  him.  Whether  the  Emperor 
composed  his  famous  code,  or  borrowed  it,  is  of  little 
importance;  but  he  established  it,  and  made  the  law 
equal  for  every  man  in  France  except  one.  His  vast 
public  works  and  vaster  wars  were  carried  on  with- 
out new  loans  or  exorbitant  taxes;  it  was  only  the 
blood  and  liberty  of  the  people  that  were  taxed,  and 
we  shall  want  a  better  advocate  than  Prince  Louis  to 
show  us  that  these  were  not  most  unnecessarily  and  lav- 
ishly thrown  away.  As  for  the  former  and  material  im- 
provements, it  is  not  necessary  to  confess  here  that  a 
despotic  energy  can  effect  such  far  more  readily  than  a 
Government  of  which  the  strength  is  diffused  in  many 
conflicting  parties.  No  doubt,  if  we  could  create  a  des- 
potical  governing  machine,  a  steam  autocrat, — passion- 
less, untiring,  and  supreme, — we  should  advance  further, 
and  live  more  at  ease  than  under  any  other  form  of 
government.  Ministers  might  enjoy  their  pensions  and 
follow  their  own  devices;  Lord  John  might  compose 
histories  or  tragedies  at  his  leisure,  and  Lord  Palmer- 
ston,  instead  of  racking  his  brains  to  write  leading  arti- 
cles for  Cupid,  might  crown  his  locks  with  flowers,  and 
sing  Iptoxa  [Looyov,  his  natural  Anacreontics;  but  alas! 
not  so:  if  the  despotic  Government  has  its  good  side, 
Prince  Louis  Napoleon  must  acknowledge  that  it  has 
its  bad,  and  it  is  for  this  that  the  civilized  world  is  com- 
pelled to  substitute  for  it  something  more  orderly  and 
less  capricious.  Good  as  the  Imperial  Government 
might  have  been,  it  must  be  recollected,  too,  that  since  its 
first  fall,  both  the  Emperor  and  his  admirer  and  would-be 
successor  have  had  their  chance  of  re-establishing  it. 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SYSTEM       175 

"Fly  from  steeple  to  steeple"  the  eagles  of  the  former 
did  actually,  and  according  to  promise  perch  for  a  while 
on  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame.  We  know  the  event :  if  the 
fate  of  war  declared  against  the  Emperor,  the  country 
declared  against  him  too;  and,  with  old  Lafayette  for  a 
mouthpiece,  the  representatives  of  the  nation  did,  in  a 
neat  speech,  pronounce  themselves  in  permanence,  but 
spoke  no  more  of  the  Emperor  than  if  he  had  never  been. 
Thereupon  the  Emperor  proclaimed  his  son  the  Emperor 
Napoleon  II.  "  L'Empereur  est  mort,  vive  I'Empe- 
reur!  "  shouted  Prince  Lucien.  Psha!  not  a  soul  echoed 
the  words :  the  play  was  played,  and  as  for  old  Lafayette 
and  his  "  permanent  "  representatives,  a  corporal  with 
a  hammer  nailed  up  the  door  of  their  spouting-club,  and 
once  more  Louis  Stanislas  Xavier  rolled  back  to  the 
bosom  of  his  people. 

In  like  manner  Napoleon  III.  returned  from  exile, 
and  made  his  appearance  on  the  frontier.  His  eagle  ap- 
peared at  Strasburg,  and  from  Strasburg  advanced  to 
the  capital ;  but  it  arrived  at  Paris  with  a  keeper,  and  in 
a  postchaise;  whence,  by  the  orders  of  the  sovereign,  it 
was  removed  to  the  American  shores,  and  there  mag- 
nanimously let  loose.  Who  knows,  however,  how  soon  it 
may  be  on  the  wing  again,  and  what  a  flight  it  will  take? 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL 

' /^  O,  my  nephew,"  said  old  Father  Jacob  to  me,  "  and 
VJT  complete  thy  studies  at  Strasburg :  Heaven  surely 
hath  ordained  thee  for  the  ministry  in  these  times  of  trou- 
ble, and  my  excellent  friend  Schneider  will  work  out  the 
divine  intention." 

Schneider  was  an  old  college  friend  of  uncle  Jacob's, 
was  a  Benedictine  monk,  and  a  man  famous  for  his 
learning;  as  for  me,  I  was  at  that  time  my  uncle's  cho- 
rister, clerk,  and  sacristan;  I  swept  the  church,  chanted 
the  prayers  with  my  shrill  treble,  and  swung  the  great 
copper  incense-pot  on  Sundays  and  feasts;  and  I  toiled 
over  the  Fathers  for  the  other  days  of  the  week. 

The  old  gentleman  said  that  my  progress  was  pro- 
digious, and,  without  vanity,  I  believe  he  was  right,  for 
I  then  verily  considered  that  praying  was  my  vocation, 
and  not  fighting,  as  I  have  found  since. 

You  would  hardly  conceive  (said  the  Captain,  swear- 
ing a  great  oath)  how  devout  and  how  learned  I  was  in 
those  days ;  I  talked  Latin  faster  than  my  own  beautiful 
patois  of  Alsatian  French ;  I  could  utterly  overthrow  in 
argument  every  Protestant  (heretics  we  called  them) 
parson  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  there  was  a  con- 
founded sprinkling  of  these  unbelievers  in  our  part  of 
the  country.  I  prayed  half-a-dozen  times  a  day ;  I  fasted 
thrice  in  a  week;  and,  as  for  penance,  I  used  to  scourge 
my  little  sides,  till  they  had  no  more  feeling  than  a  peg- 

176 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  AXCEL        177 

top :  such  was  the  godly  life  I  led  at  my  uncle  Jacob's  in 
the  village  of  Steinbach. 

Our  family  had  long  dwelt  in  this  place,  and  a  large 
farm  and  a  pleasant  house  were  then  in  the  possession  of 
another  uncle — uncle  Edward.  He  was  the  youngest 
of  the  three  sons  of  my  grandfather ;  but  Jacob,  the  elder, 
had  shown  a  decided  vocation  for  the  church,  from,  I 
believe,  the  age  of  three,  and  now  was  by  no  means  tired 
of  it  at  sixty.  My  father,  who  was  to  have  inherited  the 
paternal  property,  was,  as  I  hear,  a  terrible  scamp  and 
scapegrace,  quarrelled  with  his  family,  and  disappeared 
altogether,  living  and  dying  at  Paris;  so  far  we  knew 
through  my  mother,  who  came,  poor  woman,  with  me, 
a  child  of  six  months,  on  her  bosom,  was  refused  all 
shelter  by  my  grandfather,  but  was  housed  and  kindly 
cared  for  by  my  good  uncle  Jacob. 

Here  she  lived  for  about  seven  years,  and  the  old 
gentleman,  when  she  died,  wept  over  her  grave  a  great 
deal  more  than  I  did,  who  was  then  too  young  to  mind 
anything  but  toys  or  sweetmeats. 

During  this  time  my  grandfather  was  likewise  carried 
off:  he  left,  as  I  said,  the  property  to  his  son  Edward, 
with  a  small  proviso  in  his  will  that  something  should  be 
done  for  me,  his  grandson. 

Edward  was  himself  a  widower,  with  one  daughter, 
Mary,  about  three  years  older  than  I,  and  certainly  she 
was  the  dearest  little  treasure  with  which  Providence 
ever  blessed  a  miserly  father;  by  the  time  she  was  fif- 
teen, five  farmers,  three  lawyers,  twelve  Protestant  par- 
sons, and  a  lieutenant  of  Dragoons  had  made  her  offers : 
it  must  not  be  denied  that  she  was  an  heiress  as  well  as 
a  beauty,  which,  perhaps,  had  something  to  do  with  the 
love  of  these  gentlemen.    However,  Mary  declared  that 


178  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

she  intended  to  live  single,  turned  away  her  lovers  one 
after  another,  and  devoted  herself  to  the  care  of  her 
father. 

Uncle  Jacob  was  as  fond  of  her  as  he  was  of  any 
saint  or  martyr.  As  for  me,  at  the  mature  age  of  twelve 
I  had  made  a  kind  of  divinity  of  her,  and  when  we  sang 
"  Ave  Maria  "  on  Sundays  I  could  not  refrain  from 
turning  to  her,  where  she  knelt,  blushing  and  praying 
and  looking  like  an  angel,  as  she  was.  Besides  her 
beauty,  Mary  had  a  thousand  good  qualities;  she  could 
play  better  on  the  harpsichord,  she  could  dance  more 
lightly,  she  could  make  better  pickles  and  puddings,  than 
any  girl  in  Alsace ;  there  was  not  a  want  or  a  fancy  of  the 
old  hunks  her  father,  or  a  wish  of  mine  or  my  uncle's, 
that  she  would  not  gratify  if  she  could;  as  for  herself, 
the  sweet  soul  had  neither  wants  nor  wishes  except  to  see 
us  happy. 

I  could  talk  to  you  for  a  year  of  all  the  pretty  kind- 
nesses that  she  would  do  for  me;  how,  when  she  found 
me  of  early  mornings  among  my  books,  her  presence 
"would  cast  a  light  upon  the  day;"  how  she  used  to 
smooth  and  fold  my  little  surplice,  and  embroider  me 
caps  and  gowns  for  high  feast-days;  how  she  used  to 
bring  flowers  for  the  altar,  and  who  could  deck  it  so  well 
as  she?  But  sentiment  does  not  come  glibly  from  under 
a  grizzled  moustache,  so  I  will  drop  it,  if  you  please. 

Amongst  other  favours  she  showed  me,  Mary  used  to 
be  particularly  fond  of  kissing  me :  it  was  a  thing  I  did 
not  so  much  value  in  those  days,  but  I.  found  that  the 
more  I  grew  alive  to  the  extent  of  the  benefit,  the  less  she 
would  condescend  to  confer  it  on  me ;  till,  at  last,  when  I 
was  about  fourteen,  she  discontinued  it  altogether,  of 
her  own  wish  at  least ;  only  sometimes  I  used  to  be  rude, 


Mary  Ancel 


THE   STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       179 

and  take  what  she  had  now  become  so  mighty  unwill- 
ing to  give. 

I  was  engaged  in  a  contest  of  this  sort  one  day  with 
Mary,  when,  just  as  I  was  about  to  carry  off  a  kiss  from 
her  cheek,  I  was  saluted  with  a  staggering  slap  on  my 
own,  which  was  bestowed  by  uncle  Edward,  and  sent  me 
reeling  some  yards  down  the  garden. 

The  old  gentleman,  whose  tongue  was  generally  as 
close  as  his  purse,  now  poured  forth  a  flood  of  eloquence 
which  quite  astonished  me.  I  did  not  think  that  so  much 
was  to  be  said  on  any  subject  as  he  managed  to  utter 
on  one,  and  that  was  abuse  of  me ;  he  stamped,  he  swore, 
he  screamed;  and  then,  from  complimenting  me,  he 
turned  to  Mary,  and  saluted  her  in  a  manner  equally 
forcible  and  significant ;  she,  who  was  very  much  fright- 
ened at  the  commencement  of  the  scene,  grew  very 
angry  at  the  coarse  words  he  used,  and  the  wicked  mo- 
tives he  imputed  to  her. 

"The  child  is  but  fourteen,"  she  said;  "he  is  your 
own  nephew,  and  a  candidate  for  holy  orders: — father, 
it  is  a  shame  that  you  should  thus  speak  of  me,  your 
daughter,  or  of  one  of  his  holy  profession." 

I  did  not  particularly  admire  this  speech  myself,  but 
it  had  an  effect  on  my  uncle,  and  was  the  cause  of  the 
words  with  which  this  history  commences.  The  old 
gentleman  persuaded  his  brother  that  I  must  be  sent 
to  Strasburg,  and  there  kept  until  my  studies  for  the 
church  were  concluded.  I  was  furnished  with  a  letter  to 
my  uncle's  old  college  chum,  Professor  Schneider,  who 
was  to  instruct  me  in  theology  and  Greek. 

I  was  not  sorry  to  see  Strasburg,  of  the  wonders  of 
which  I  had  heard  so  much ;  but  felt  very  loth  as  the  time 
drew  near  when  I  must  quit  my  pretty  cousin,  and  my 


180  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

good  old  uncle.  IVIary  and  I  managed,  however,  a  part- 
ing walk,  in  which  a  number  of  tender  things  were  said 
on  both  sides.  I  am  told  that  you  Englishmen  consider 
it  cowardly  to  cry;  as  for  me,  I  wept  and  roared  in- 
cessantly: when  ]Mary  squeezed  me,  for  the  last  time, 
the  tears  came  out  of  me  as  if  I  had  been  neither  more 
nor  less  than  a  great  wet  sponge.  My  cousin's  eyes  were 
stoically  dry;  her  ladyship  had  a  part  to  play,  and  it 
would  have  been  wrong  for  her  to  be  in  love  with  a  young 
chit  of  fourteen — so  she  carried  herself  with  perfect 
coolness,  as  if  there  was  nothing  the  matter.  I  should 
not  have  known  that  she  cared  for  me,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  letter  which  she  wrote  me  a  month  afterwards 
— then  J,  nobody  was  by,  and  the  consequence  was  that 
the  letter  was  half  washed  away  with  her  Aveeping;  if 
she  had  used  a  watering-pot  the  thing  could  not  have 
been  better  done. 

Well,  I  arrived  at  Strasburg— a  dismal,  old-fashioned, 
rickety  town  in  those  days — and  straightway^  presented 
mvself  and  letter  at  Schneider's  door;  over  it  was 
written — 

COMITE    DE    SALUT    PUBLIC 

Would  you  believe  it?  I  was  so  ignorant  a  young  fel- 
low, that  I  had  no  idea  of  the  meaning  of  the  words; 
however,  I  entered  the  citizen's  room  without  fear,  and 
sat  down  in  his  ante-chamber  until  I  could  be  admitted 
to  see  him. 

Here  I  found  very  few  indications  of  his  reverence's 
profession;  the  walls  were  hung  round  Avith  portraits 
of  Robespierre,  Marat,  and  the  Jike;  a  great  bust  of 
Mirabeau,  mutilated,  with  the  word  Traitre  underneath ; 
lists  and  republican  proclamations,  tobacco-pipes  and 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       181 

fire-arms.  At  a  deal-table,  stained  with  grease  and  wine, 
sat  a  gentleman,  with  a  huge  pig-tail  dangling  down  to 
that  part  of  his  person  which  immediately  succeeds  his 
back,  and  a  red  nightcap,  containing  a  tricolor  cockade 
as  large  as  a  pancake.  He  was  smoking  a  short  pipe, 
reading  a  little  book,  and  sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would 
break.  Every  now  and  then  he  would  make  brief  re- 
marks upon  the  personages  or  the  incidents  of  his  book, 
by  which  I  could  judge  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  very 
keenest  sensibilities — "Ah,  brigand!"  "O  malheu- 
reuse!  "  "  O  Charlotte,  Charlotte!  "  The  work  which 
this  gentleman  was  perusing  is  called  "  The  Sorrows  of 
Werter;"  it  was  all  the  rage  in  those  days,  and  my 
friend  was  only  following  the  fashion.  I  asked  him 
if  I  could  see  Father  Schneider?  he  turned  towards  me  a 
hideous,  pimpled  face,  whicli  I  dream  of  now  at  forty 
years'  distance. 

"  Father  who?  "  said  he.  "  Do  you  imagine  that 
citizen  Schneider  has  not  thrown  off  the  absurd 
mummery  of  priesthood?  If  you  were  a  little  older 
you  would  go  to  prison  for  calling  him  Father  Schneider 
—many  a  man  has  died  for  less;  "  and  he  pointed  to  a 
picture  of  a  guillotine,  which  was  hanging  in  the 
room. 

I  ,was  in  amazement. 

"  What  is  he?  Is  he  not  a  teacher  of  Greek,  an  abbe, 
a  monk,  until  monasteries  were  abolished,  the  learned 
editor  of  the  songs  of  '  Anacreon? 

"  He  was  all  this,"  replied  my  grim  friend ;  "  he  is  now 
a  Member  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety,  and  would 
think  no  more  of  ordering  your  head  off  than  of  drinking 
this  tumbler  of  beer." 

He  swallowed,  himself,  the  frothy  liquid,  and  then 


182  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

proceeded  to  give  me  the  history  of  the  man  to  whom 
my  uncle  had  sent  me  for  instruction. 

Schneider  was  born  in  1756:  was  a  student  at  Wiira- 
burg,  and  afterwards  entered  a  convent,  where  he  re- 
mained nine  years.  He  here  became  distinguished  for 
his  learning  and  his  talents  as  a  preacher,  and  became 
chaplain  to  Duke  Charles  of  Wiirtemberg.  The  doc- 
trines of  the  Illuminati  began  about  this  time  to  spread 
in  Germany,  and  Schneider  speedily  joined  the  sect. 
He  had  been  a  professor  of  Greek  at  Cologne ;  and  being 
compelled  on  account  of  his  irregularity,  to  give  up  his 
chair,  he  came  to  Strasburg  at  the  commencement  of  the 
French  Revolution,  and  acted  for  some  time  a  principal 
part  as  a  revolutionary  agent  at  Strasburg. 

["  Heaven  knows  what  would  have  happened  to  me 
had  I  continued  long  under  his  tuition!  "  said  the  Cap- 
tain. "  I  owe  the  preservation  of  my  morals  entirely  to 
my  entering  the  army.  A  man,  sir,  who  is  a  soldier,  has 
very  little  time  to  be  wicked;  except  in  the  case  of  a 
siege  and  the  sack  of  a  town,  when  a  little  licence  can 
oiFend  nobody."] 

By  the  time  that  my  friend  had  concluded  Schneider's 
biography,  we  had  grown  tolerably  intimate,  and  I  im- 
parted to  him  (with  that  experience  so  remarkable  in 
youth)  my  whole  history— my  course  of  studies,  my 
pleasant  country  life,  the  names  and  qualities  of  my  dear 
relations,  and  my  occupations  in  the  vestry  before  re- 
ligion was  abolished  by  order  of  the  Republic.  In 
the  course  of  my  speech  I  recurred  so  often  to  the 
name  of  my  cousin  Mary,  that  the  gentleman  could 
not  fail  to  perceive  what  a  tender  place  she  had  in  my 
heart. 

Then  we  reverted  to  "  The  Sorrows  of  Werter,"  and 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       183 

discussed  the  merits  of  that  subhme  performance.  Al- 
though I  had  before  felt  some  misgivings  about  my  new 
acquaintance,  my  heart  now  quite  yearned  towards  him. 
He  talked  about  love  and  sentiment  in  a  manner  which 
made  me  recollect  that  I  was  in  love  myself;  and  you 
know  that  when  a  man  is  in  that  condition,  his  taste  is 
not  very  refined,  any  maudlin  trash  of  prose  or  verse  ap- 
pearing sublime  to  him,  provided  it  correspond,  in  some 
degree,  with  his  own  situation. 

"  Candid  youth!  "  cried  my  unknown,  "  I  love  to  hear 
thy  innocent  story  and  look  on  thy  guileless  face.  There 
is,  alas!  so  much  of  the  contrary  in  this  world,  so  much 
terror  and  crime  and  blood,  that  we  who  mingle  with  it 
are  only  too  glad  to  forget  it.  Would  that  we  could 
shake  off  our  cares  as  men,  and  be  boys,  as  thou  art, 
again ! " 

Here  my  friend  began  to  weep  once  more,  and  fondly 
shook  my  hand.  I  blessed  my  stars  that  I  had,  at  the 
very  outset  of  my  career,  met  with  one  who  was  so  likely 
to  aid  me.  What  a  slanderous  world  it  is,  thought  I; 
the  people  in  our  village  call  these  Republicans  wicked 
and  bloody-minded;  a  lamb  could  not  be  more  tender 
than  this  sentimental  bottle-nosed  gentleman!  The 
worthy  man  then  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  held  a 
place  under  Government.  I  was  busy  in  endeavouring  to 
discover  what  his  situation  might  be,  when  the  door  of 
the  next  apartment  opened,  and  Schneider  made  his 
appearance. 

At  first  he  did  not  notice  me,  but  he  advanced  to  my 
new  acquaintance,  and  gave  him,  to  my  astonisliment, 
something  very  like  a  blow. 

"  You  drunken,  talking  fool,"  he  said,  "  you  are  al- 
ways after  your  time.    Fourteen  people  are  cooling  their 


184  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

heels  yonder,  waiting  until  you  have  finislied  your  beer 
and  your  sentiment!  " 

My  friend  slunk  muttering  out  of  the  room. 

"  That  fellow,"  said  Schneider,  turning  to  me,  "  is 
our  public  executioner:  a  capital  hand  too  if  he  would 
but  keep  decent  time ;  but  the  brute  is  always  drunk,  and 
blubbering  over  '  The  Sorrows  of  Werter! '  " 

*  *  *  *  *  . 

I  know  not  whether  it  was  his  old  friendship  for  my 
uncle,  or  my  proper  merits,  which  won  the  heart  of  this 
the  sternest  ruffian  of  Robespierre's  crew;  but  certain  it 
is,  that  he  became  strangely  attached  to  me,  and  kept 
me  constantly  about  his  person.  As  for  the  priesthood 
and  the  Greek,  they  were  of  course  very  soon  out  of  the 
question.  The  Austrians  were  on  our  frontier;  every 
day  brought  us  accounts  of  battles  won;  and  the  youth 
of  Strasburg,  and  of  all  France,  indeed,  were  bursting 
with  military  ardour.  As  for  me,  I  shared  the  general 
mania,  and  speedily  mounted  a  cockade  as  large  as  that 
of  my  friend  the  executioner. 

The  occupations  of  this  worthy  were  unremitting. 
Saint  Just,  who  had  come  down  from  Paris  to  preside 
over  our  town,  executed  the  laws  and  the  aristocrats  with 
terrible  punctuality;  and  Schneider  used  to  make  coun- 
try excursions  in  search  of  offenders  with  this  fellow, 
as  a  provost-marshal,  at  his  back.  In  the  meantime, 
having  entered  my  sixteenth  year,  and  being  a  proper 
lad  of  my  age,  I  had  joined  a  regiment  of  cavalry,  and 
was  scampering  now  after  the  Austrians  who  menaced 
us,  and  now  threatening  the  Emigres,  who  were  banded 
at  Coblentz.  My  love  for  my  dear  cousin  increased  as 
my  whiskers  grew;  and  when  I  was  scarcely  seventeen, 
I  thought  myself  man  enough  to  marry  her,  and  to  cut 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       185 

the  throat  of  any  one  who  should  venture  to  say  me 
nay. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  during  my  absence  at  Stras- 
burg,  great  changes  had  occurred  in  our  little  village, 
and  somewhat  of  the  revolutionary  rage  had  penetrated 
even  to  that  quiet  and  distant  place.  The  hideous  "  Fete 
of  the  Supreme  Being  "  had  been  celebrated  at  Paris; 
the  practice  of  our  ancient  religion  was  forbidden;  its 
professors  were  most  of  them  in  concealment,  or  in  exile, 
or  had  expiated  on  the  scaffold  their  crime  of  Christian- 
ity. In  our  poor  village  my  uncle's  church  was  closed, 
and  he,  himself,  an  inmate  in  his  brother's  house,  only 
owing  his  safety  to  his  great  popularity  among  his 
former  flock,  and  the  influence  of  Edward  Ancel. 

The  latter  had  taken  in  the  Revolution  a  somewhat 
prominent  part;  that  is,  he  had  engaged  in  many  con- 
tracts for  the  army,  attended  the  clubs  regularly,  cor- 
responded with  the  authorities  of  his  department,  and 
was  loud  in  his  denunciations  of  the  aristocrats  in  the 
neighbourhood.  But  owing,  perhaps,  to  the  German  ori- 
gin of  the  peasantry,  and  their  quiet  and  rustic  lives,  the 
revolutionary  fury  which  prevailed  in  the  cities  had 
hardly  reached  the  country  people.  The  occasional  visit 
of  a  commissary  from  Paris  or  Strasburg  served  to  keep 
the  flame  alive,  and  to  remind  the  rural  swains  of  the 
existence  of  a  Republic  in  France. 

Now  and  then,  when  I  could  gain  a  week's  leave  of 
absence,  I  returned  to  the  village,  and  was  received  with 
tolerable  politeness  by  my  uncle,  and  with  a  warmer  feel- 
ing by  his  daughter. 

I  won't  describe  to  you  the  progress  of  our  love,  or  the 
wrath  of  my  uncle  Edward,  when  he  discovered  that  it 
still  continued.     He  swore  and  he  stormed;  he  locked 


186  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Mary  into  her  chamber,  and  vowed  that  he  would  with- 
draw the  allowance  he  made  me,  if  ever  I  ventured  near 
her.  His  daughter,  he  said,  should  never  marry  a  hope- 
less, penniless  subaltern;  and  Mary  declared  she  would 
not  marry  without  his  consent.  What  had  I  to  do? 
— to  despair  and  to  leave  her.  As  for  my  poor  uncle 
Jacob,  he  had  no  counsel  to  give  me,  and,  indeed,  no 
spirit  left :  his  little  church  was  turned  into  a  stable,  his 
surplice  torn  off  his  shoulders,  and  he  was  only  too 
lucky  in  keeping  his  head  on  them.  A  bright  thought 
struck  him:  suppose  you  were  to  ask  the  advice  of  my 
old  friend  Schneider  regarding  this  marriage?  he  has 
ever  been  your  friend,  and  may  help  you  now  as  before. 

(Here  the  Captain  paused  a  little.)  You  may  fancy 
(continued  he)  that  it  was  droll  advice  of  a  reverend  gen- 
tleman like  uncle  Jacob  to  counsel  me  in  this  manner,  and 
to  bid  me  make  friends  with  such  a  murderous  cut-throat 
as  Schneider ;  but  we  thought  nothing  of  it  in  those  days ; 
guillotining  was  as  common  as  dancing,  and  a  man  was 
only  thought  the  better  patriot  the  more  severe  he  might 
be.  I  departed  forthwith  to  Strasburg,  and  requested  the 
vote  and  interest  of  the  Citizen  President  of  the  Commit- 
tee of  Public  Safety. 

He  heard  me  with  a  great  deal  of  attention.  I  de- 
scribed to  him  most  minutely  the  circumstance,  expati- 
ated upon  the  charms  of  my  dear  Mary,  and  painted  her 
to  him  from  head  to  foot.  Her  golden  hair  and  her 
bright  blushing  cheeks,  her  slim  waist  and  her  tripping 
tiny  feet ;  and  furthermore,  I  added  that  she  possessed  a 
fortune  which  ought,  by  rights,  to  be  mine,  but  for  the 
miserly  old  father.  "  Curse  him  for  an  aristocrat!  "  con- 
cluded I,  in  my  wrath. 

As   I   had   been   discoursing   about   Mary's   charms 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       187 

Schneider  listened  with  much  complacency  and  attention : 
when  I  spoke  about  her  fortune,  his  interest  redoubled; 
and  when  I  called  her  father  an  aristocrat,  the  worthy  ex- 
Jesuit  gave  a  grin  of  satisfaction,  which  was  really  quite 
terrible.    O  fool  that  I  was  to  trust  him  so  far ! 

TfC  Iff  iff  ^ 

The  very  same  evening  an  officer  waited  upon  me  with 
the  following  note  from  Saint  Just: — 

"  Strasburg,  Fifth  Year  of  the  Republic,  one  and 
indivisible,  11  Ventose. 
"  The  citizen  Pierre  Ancel  is  to  leave  Strasburg  within  two 
hours,  and  to  carry  the  enclosed  despatches  to  the  President  of 
the  Committee  of  Public  Safety  at  Paris.  The  necessary  leave  of 
absence  from  his  military  duties  has  been  provided.  Instant  pun- 
ishment will  follow  the  slightest  delay  on  the  road. 

"  Salut  et  Fraternite." 

There  was  no  choice  but  obedience,  and  off  I  sped  on 
my  weary  way  to  the  capital. 

As  I  was  riding  out  of  the  Paris  gate  I  met  an  equi- 
page which  I  knew  to  be  that  of  Schneider.  The  ruffian 
smiled  at  me  as  I  passed,  and  wished  me  a  bon  voyage. 
Behind  his  chariot  came  a  curious  machine,  or  cart;  a 
great  basket,  three  stout  poles,  and  several  planks,  all 
painted  red,  were  lying  in  this  vehicle,  on  the  top  of 
which  was  seated  my  friend  with  the  big  cockade.  It  was 
the  portable  guillot'me  which  Schneider  always  carried 
with  him  on  his  travels.  The  bourreau  was  reading  "  The 
Sorrows  of  Werter,"  and  looked  as  sentimental  as  usual. 

I  will  not  speak  of  my  voyage  in  order  to  relate  to  you 
Schneider's.  My  story  had  awakened  the  wretch's  curi- 
osity and  avarice,  and  he  was  determined  that  such  a 


188  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

prize  as  I  had  shown  my  cousin  to  be  should  fall  into  no 
hands  but  his  own.  No  sooner,  in  fact,  had  I  quitted  his 
room  than  he  procured  the  order  for  my  absence,  and  was 
on  the  way  to  Steinbach  as  I  met  him. 

The  journey  is  not  a  very  long  one;  and  on  the  next 
day  my  uncle  Jacob  was  surprised  by  receiving  a  mes- 
sage that  the  citizen  Schneider  was  in  the  village,  and 
was  coming  to  greet  his  old  friend.  Old  Jacob  was  in 
an  ecstasy,  for  he  longed  to  see  his  college  acquaintance, 
and  he  hoped  also  that  Schneider  had  come  into  that 
part  of  the  country  upon  the  marriage-business  of  your 
humble  servant.  Of  course  JNIary  was  summoned  to  give 
her  best  dinner,  and  wear  her  best  frock ;  and  her  father 
made  ready  to  receive  the  new  State  dignitary. 

Schneider's  carriage  speedily  rolled  into  the  court-yard, 
and  Schneider's  caj't  followed,  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
ex-priest  only  entered  the  house;  his  companion  remain- 
ing with  the  horses  to  dine  in  private.  Here  was  a  most 
touching  meeting  between  him  and  Jacob.  They  talked 
over  their  old  college  pranks  and  successes ;  they  capped 
Greek  verses,  and  quoted  ancient  epigrams  upon  their 
tutors,  who  had  been  dead  since  the  Seven  Years'  War. 
Mary  declared  it  was  quite  touching  to  listen  to  the  merry 
friendly  talk  of  these  two  old  gentlemen. 

After  the  conversation  had  continued  for  a  time  in  this 
strain,  Schneider  drew  up  all  of  a  sudden,  and  said 
quietly,  that  he  had  come  on  particular  and  unpleasant 
business — hinting  about  troublesome  times,  spies,  evil  re- 
ports, and  so  forth.  Then  he  called  uncle  Edward  aside, 
and  had  with  him  a  long  and  earnest  conversation:  so 
Jacob  went  out  and  talked  with  Schneider's  friend;  they 
speedily  became  very  intimate,  for  the  ruffian  detailed 
all  the  circumstances  of  his  interview  with  me.    When  he 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       189 

returned  into  the  house,  some  time  after  this  pleasing 
colloquy,  he  found  the  tone  of  the  society  strangely  al- 
tered. Edward  Ancel,  pale  as  a  sheet,  trembling,  and 
crying  for  mercy;  poor  Mary  weeping;  and  Schneider 
pacing  energetically  about  the  apartment,  raging  about 
the  rights  of  man,  the  punishment  of  traitors,  and  the  one 
and  indivisible  Republic. 

"  Jacob,"  he  said,  as  my  uncle  entered  the  room,  "  I 
was  willing,  for  the  sake  of  our  old  friendship,  to  forget 
the  crimes  of  your  brother.  He  is  a  known  and  danger- 
ous aristocrat;  he  holds  communications  with  the  enemy 
on  the  frontier ;  he  is  a  possessor  of  great  and  ill-gotten 
wealth,  of  which  he  has  plundered  the  Republic.  Do  you 
know,"  said  he,  turning  to  Edward  Ancel,  "  where  the 
least  of  these  crimes,  or  the  mere  suspicion  of  them,  would 
lead  you?  " 

Poor  Edward  sat  trembling  in  his  chair,  and  answered 
not  a  word.  He  knew  full  well  how  quickly,  in  this 
dreadful  time,  punishment  followed  suspicion;  and, 
though  guiltless  of  all  treason  with  the  enemy,  perhaps 
he  was  aware  that,  in  certain  contracts  with  the  Govern- 
ment, he  had  taken  to  himself  a  more  than  patriotic  share 
of  profit. 

"  Do  you  know,"  resumed  Schneider,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  "  for  what  purpose  I  came  hither,  and  by  whom 
I  am  accompanied?  I  am  the  administrator  of  the  jus- 
tice of  the  Republic.  The  life  of  yourself  and  your 
family  is  in  my  hands:  yonder  man,  who  follows  me,  is 
the  executor  of  the  law;  he  has  rid  the  nation  of  hun- 
dreds of  wretches  like  yourself.  A  single  word  from 
me,  and  your  doom  is  sealed  without  hope,  and  your  last 
hour  is  come.  Ho!  Gregoire!"  shouted  he;  "is  all 
ready?  " 


190  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Gregoire  replied  from  the  court,  "  I  can  put  up  the 
machine  in  half  an  hour.  Shall  I  go  down  to  the  village 
and  call  the  troops  and  the  law  people? " 

"  Do  you  hear  him?  "  said  Schneider.  "  The  guillotine 
is  in  the  court-vard ;  vour  name  is  on  mv  list,  and  I  have 
witnesses  to  prove  yom*  crime.  Have  you  a  word  in  your 
defence?  " 

Xot  a  word  came ;  the  old  gentleman  was  dumb;  but  his 
daughter,  who  did  not  give  way  to  his  terror,  spoke  for 
him. 

"  You  cannot,  sir,"  said  she,  "  although  you  say  it,  feci 
that  mv  father  is  guilt v ;  vou  would  not  have  entered  our 
house  thus  alone  if  you  had  thought  it.  You  threaten  him 
in  this  manner  because  you  have  something  to  ask  and  to 
gain  from  us:  what  is  it,  citizen? — tell  us  how  much  you 
value  our  lives,  and  what  sum  we  are  to  pay  for  our 
ransom? " 

"  Sum!  "  said  uncle  Jacob;  "  he  does  not  want  money 
of  us:  my  old  friend,  my  college  chum,  does  not  come 
hither  to  drive  bargains  with  anybody  belonging  to  Jacob 
Ancel?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  no,  vou  can't  want  monev  of  us,"  shrieked 
Edward;  "we  are  the  poorest  people  of  the  village: 
ruined,  ^Monsieur  Schneider,  ruined  in  the  cause  of  the 
Republic." 

"Silence,  father,"  said  mv  brave  Marv;  "this  man 
^vants  a  price:  he  comes,  with  his  worthy  friend  yonder, 
to  frighten  us,  not  to  kill  us.  If  w^e  die,  he  cannot  touch 
a  sou  of  our  money;  it  is  confiscated  to  the  State.  Tell 
us,  sir,  what  is  the  price  of  our  safety?  " 

Schneider  smiled,  and  bowed  with  perfect  politeness. 

"  JNIademoiselle  INIarie,"  he  said,  "  is  perfectly  correct 
in  her  surmise.    I  do  not  want  the  life  of  this  poor  drivel- 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       191 

ling  old  man :  my  intentions  are  much  more  peaceable,  be 
assured.  It  rests  entirely  with  this  accomplished  young 
lady  (whose  spirit  I  like,  and  whose  ready  wit  I  admire) , 
whether  the  business  between  us  shall  be  a  matter  of  love 
or  death.  I  humbly  offer  myself,  citizen  Ancel,  as  a 
candidate  for  the  hand  of  your  charming  daughter.  Her 
goodness,  her  beauty,  and  the  large  fortune  which  I 
know  you  intend  to  give  her,  would  render  her  a  desirable 
match  for  the  proudest  man  in  the  republic,  and,  I  am 
sure,  would  make  me  the  happiest." 

"  This  must  be  a  jest.  Monsieur  Schneider,"  said 
Mary,  trembling,  and  turning  deadly  pale:  "  you  cannot 
mean  this ;  you  do  not  know  me :  you  never  heard  of  me 
until  to-day." 

"  Pardon  me,  belle  dame,"  replied  he;  "your  cousin 
Pierre  has  often  talked  to  me  of  your  virtues ;  indeed,  it 
was  by  his  special  suggestion  that  I  made  the  visit." 

"  It  is  false! — it  is  a  base  and  cowardly  lie!  "  exclaimed 
she  (for  the  young  lady's  courage  w'as  up), — "Pierre 
never  could  have  forgotten  himself  and  me  so  as  to  offer 
me  to  one  like  you.  You  come  here  with  a  lie  on  your 
lips — a  lie  against  my  father,  to  swear  his  life  away, 
against  my  dear  cousin's  honour  and  love.  It  is  useless 
now  to  deny  it :  father,  I  love  Pierre  Ancel ;  I  will  marry 
no  other  but  him— no,  though  our  last  penny  were  paid 
to  this  man  as  the  price  of  our  freedom." 

Schneider's  only  reply  to  this  was  a  call  to  liis  friend 
Gregoire. 

"  Send  down  to  the  village  for  the  maire  and  some 
gendarmes;  and  tell  your  people  to  make  ready." 

"  Shall  I  put  the  machine  up?  "  shouted  he  of  the  senti- 
mental turn. 

"  You  hear  him,"  said  Schneider ;  "  ^larie  Ancel,  you 


192  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

may  decide  the  fate  of  your  father.  I  shall  return  in 
a  few  hours,"  concluded  he,  "  and  will  then  beg  to  know 
your  decision." 

The  advocate  of  the  rights  of  man  then  left  the  apart- 
ment, and  left  the  family,  as  you  may  imagine,  in  no  very 
pleasant  mood. 

Old  uncle  Jacob,  during  the  few  minutes  which  had 
elapsed  in  the  enactment  of  this  strange  scene,  sat  staring 
wildly  at  Schneider,  and  holding  Mary  on  his  knees:  the 
poor  little  thing  had  fled  to  him  for  protection,  and  not 
to  her  father,  who  was  kneeling  almost  senseless  at  the 
window,  gazing  at  the  executioner  and  his  hideous  prep- 
arations. The  instinct  of  the  poor  girl  had  not  failed 
her;  she  knew  that  Jacob  was  her  only  protector,  if  not 
of  her  life — heaven  bless  him! — of  her  honour.  "  In- 
deed," the  old  man  said,  in  a  stout  voice,  "  this  must  never 
be,  my  dearest  child — you  must  not  marry  this  man. 
If  it  be  the  will  of  Providence  that  we  fall,  we  shall  have 
at  least  the  thought  to  console  us  that  we  die  innocent. 
Any  man  in  France  at  a  time  like  this,  would  be  a  coward 
and  traitor  if  he  feared  to  meet  the  fate  of  the  thousand 
brave  and  good  who  have  preceded  us." 

"Who  speaks  of  dying?"  said  Edward.  "You, 
Brother  Jacob? — you  would  not  lay  that  poor  girl's  head 
on  the  scaffold,  or  mine,  your  dear  brother's.  You  will 
not  let  us  die,  Mary;  you  will  not,  for  a  small  sacrifice, 
bring  your  poor  old  father  into  danger?  " 

Mary  made  no  answer.  "  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  there 
is  time  for  escape:  he  is  to  be  here  but  in  two  hours;  in 
two  hours  we  may  be  safe,  in  concealment,  or  on  the 
frontier."  And  she  rushed  to  the  door  of  the  chamber, 
as  if  she  would  have  instantly  made  the  attempt:  two 
gendarmes  were  at  the  door.    "  We  have  orders.  Made- 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       193 

moiselle,"  they  said,  "  to  allow  no  one  to  leave  this  apart- 
ment until  the  return  of  the  citizen  Schneider." 

Alas !  all  hope  of  escape  was  impossible.  ]Mary  became 
quite  silent  for  a  while;  she  would  not  speak  to  uncle 
Jacob ;  and,  in  reply  to  her  father's  eager  questions,  she 
only  replied,  coldly,  that  she  would  answer  Schneider 
when  he  arrived. 

The  two  dreadful  hours  passed  away  only  too  quickly ; 
and,  punctual  to  his  appointment,  the  ex-monk  appeared. 
Directly  he  entered,  Mary  advanced  to  him,  and  said, 
calmly, — 

"  Sir,  I  could  not  deceive  you  if  I  said  that  I  freely 
accepted  the  offer  which  you  have  made  me.  I  will  be 
your  wife ;  but  I  tell  you  that  I  love  another ;  and  that  it 
is  only  to  save  the  lives  of  those  two  old  men  that  I 
yield  my  person  up  to  you." 

Schneider  bowed,  and  said, — 

"It  is  bravely  spoken.  I  like  your  candour — your 
beauty.  As  for  the  love,  excuse  me  for  saying  that  is 
a  matter  of  total  indifference.  I  have  no  doubt,  however, 
that  it  will  come  as  soon  as  your  feelings  in  favour  of  the 
young  gentleman,  your  cousin,  have  lost  their  present 
fervour.  That  engaging  young  man  has,  at  present,  an- 
other mistress— Glory.  He  occupies,  I  believe,  the  dis- 
tinguished post  of  corporal  in  a  regiment  which  is  about 
to  march  to— Perpignan,  I  believe." 

It  was,  in  fact.  Monsieur  Schneider's  polite  inten- 
tion to  banish  me  as  far  as  possible  from  the  place  of 
my  birth ;  and  he  had,  accordingly,  selected  the  Spanish 
frontier  as  the  spot  where  I  was  to  display  my  future 
military  talents. 

Mary  gave  no  answer  to  this  sneer:  she  seemed  per- 
fectly resigned  and  calm:  she  only  said, — 


194  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

"  I  must  make,  however,  some  conditions  regarding 
our  proposed  marriage,  which  a  gentleman  of  Monsieur 
Schneider's  gallantry  cannot  refuse." 

"  Pray  command  me,"  replied  the  husband  elect. 
"  Fair  lady,  you  know  I  am  your  slave." 

"  You  occupy  a  distinguished  political  rank,  citizen 
representative,"  said  she ;  "  and  we  in  our  village  are  like- 
wise known  and  beloved.  I  should  be  ashamed,  I  confess, 
to  wed  you  here ;  for  our  people  would  wonder  at  the  sud- 
den marriage,  and  imply  that  it  was  only  by  compulsion 
that  I  gave  you  my  hand.  Let  us,  then,  perform 
this  ceremony  at  Strasburg,  before  the  public  author- 
ities of  the  city,  with  the  state  and  solemnity  which 
befits  the  marriage  of  one  of  the  chief  men  of  the  Re- 
public." 

"Be  it  so,  madam,"  he  answered,  and  gallantly  pro- 
ceeded to  embrace  his  bride. 

Mary  did  not  shrink  from  this  ruffian's  kiss;  nor  did 
she  reply  when  poor  old  Jacob,  who  sat  sobbing  in  a 
corner,  burst  out,  and  said, — 

"  O  Mary,  Mary,  I  did  not  think  this  of  thee!  " 

"  Silence,  brother! "  hastily  said  Edward;  "  my  good 
son-in-law  will  pardon  your  ill-humour." 

I  believe  uncle  Edward  in  his  heart  was  pleased  at  the 
notion  of  the  marriage;  he  only  cared  for  money  and 
rank,  and  was  little  scrupulous  as  to  the  means  of  obtain- 
ing them. 

The  matter  then  was  finally  arranged ;  and  presently, 
after  Schneider  had  transacted  the  affairs  which  brought 
him  into  that  part  of  the  country,  the  happy  bridal  party 
set  forward  for  Strasburg.  Uncle  Jacob  and  Edward 
occupied  the  back  seat  of  the  old  family  carriage,  and  the 
young  bride  and  bridegroom    (he  was  nearly  Jacob's 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       195 

age)  were  seated  majestically  in  front.  Mary  has  often 
since  talked  to  me  of  this  dreadful  journey.  She  said 
she  wondered  at  the  scrupulous  politeness  of  Schneider 
during  the  route;  nay,  that  at  another  period  she  could 
have  listened  to  and  admired  the  singular  talent  of  this 
man,  his  great  learning,  his  fancy,  and  wit ;  but  her  mhid 
was  bent  upon  other  things,  and  the  poor  girl  firmly 
thought  that  her  last  day  was  come. 

In  the  meantime,  by  a  blessed  chance,  I  had  not  ridden 
three  leagues  from  Strasburg,  when  the  officer  of  a  pass- 
ing troop  of  a  cavalry  regiment,  looking  at  the  beast 
on  which  I  was  mounted,  was  pleased  to  take  a  fancy 
to  it,  and  ordered  me,  in  an  authoritative  tone,  to  descend, 
and  to  give  up  my  steed  for  the  benefit  of  the  Republic. 
I  represented  to  him,  in  vain,  that  I  was  a  soldier,  like 
himself,  and  the  bearer  of  despatches  to  Paris.  "  Fool!  " 
he  said;  "  do  you  think  they  would  send  despatches  by  a 
man  who  can  ride  at  best  but  ten  leagues  a  day?  "  And 
the  honest  soldier  was  so  wroth  at  my  supposed  duplicity, 
that  he  not  only  confiscated  my  horse,  but  my  saddle, 
and  the  little  portmanteau  which  contained  the  chief  part 
of  my  worldly  goods  and  treasure.  I  had  nothing  for  it 
but  to  dismount,  and  take  my  way  on  foot  back  again 
to  Strasburg.  I  arrived  there  in  the  evening,  determin- 
ing the  next  morning  to  make  my  case  known  to  the 
citizen  St.  Just ;  and  though  I  made  my  entry  without  a 
sou,  I  don't  know  what  secret  exultation  I  felt  at  again 
being  able  to  return. 

The  ante-chamber  of  such  a  great  man  as  St.  Just  was, 
in  those  days,  too  crowded  for  an  unprotected  boy  to 
obtain  an  early  audience ;  two  days  passed  before  I  could 
obtain  a  sight  of  the  friend  of  Robespierre.  On  the 
third  day,  as  I  was  still  waiting  for  the  interview,  I 


196  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

heard  a  great  bustle  in  the  court-yard  of  the  house,  and 
looked  out  with  many  others  at  the  spectacle. 

A  number  of  men  and  women  singing  epithalamiums, 
and  dressed  in  some  absurd  imitation  of  Roman  cos- 
tume, a  troop  of  soldiers  and  gendarmerie,  and  an 
immense  crowd  of  the  badauds  of  Strasburg,  were  sur- 
rounding a  carriage  which  then  entered  the  court  of  the 
mayoralty. 

In  this  carriage,  great  God!  I  saw  my  dear  Mary, 
and  Schneider  by  her  side.  The  truth  instantly  came 
upon  me:  the  reason  for  Schneider's  keen  inquiries  and 
my  abrupt  dismissal ;  but  I  could  not  believe  that  Mary 
was  false  to  me.  I  had  only  to  look  in  her  face,  white  and 
rigid  as  marble,  to  see  that  this  proposed  marriage  was 
not  with  her  consent. 

I  fell  back  in  the  crowd  as  the  procession  entered  the 
great  room  in  which  I  was,  and  hid  my  face  in  my  hands : 
I  could  not  look  upon  her  as  the  wife  of  another, — upon 
her  so  long  loved  and  truly — the  saint  of  my  childhood 
— the  pride  and  hope  of  my  youth — torn  from  me  for 
ever,  and  delivered  over  to  the  unholy  arms  of  the  mur- 
derer who  stood  before  me. 

The  door  of  St.  Just's  private  apartment  opened,  and 
he  took  his  seat  at  the  table  of  mayoralty  just  as  Schnei- 
der and  his  cortege  arrived  before  it. 

Schneider  then  said  that  he  came  in  before  the  authori- 
ties of  the  Republic  to  espouse  the  citoyenne  Marie 
Ancel. 

"  Is  she  a  minor? "  asked  St.  Just. 

"  She  is  a  minor,  but  her  father  is  here  to  give  her 
away." 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Uncle  Edward,  coming  eagerly  for- 
ward and  bowing.    "  Edward  Ancel,  so  please  you,  citi- 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       197 

zen  representative.  The  worthy  citizen  Schneider  has 
done  me  the  honour  of  marrying  into  my  family." 

"  But  my  father  has  not  told  you  the  terms  of  the 
marriage,"  said  Mary,  interrupting  him,  in  a  loud,  clear 
voice. 

Here  Schneider  seized  her  hand,  and  endeavoured  to 
prevent  her  from  speaking.  Her  father  turned  pale, 
and  cried,  "  Stop,  INIary,  stop!  For  heaven's  sake,  re- 
member your  poor  old  father's  danger!  " 

"  Sir,  may  I  speak?  " 

"  Let  the  young  woman  speak,"  said  St.  Just,  "  if 
she  have  a  desire  to  talk."  He  did  not  suspect  what 
would  be  the  purport  of  her  story. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  "  two  days  since  the  citizen  Schneider 
entered  for  the  first  time  our  house ;  and  you  will  fancy 
that  it  must  be  a  love  of  very  sudden  growth  which  has 
brought  either  him  or  me  before  you  to-day.  He  had 
heard  from  a  person  who  is  now  unhappily  not  present, 
of  my  name  and  of  the  wealth  which  my  family  was  said 
to  possess;  and  hence  arose  this  mad  design  concerning 
me.  He  came  into  our  village  with  supreme  power, 
an  executioner  at  his  heels,  and  the  soldiery  and  authori- 
ties of  the  district  entirely  under  his  orders.  He  threat- 
ened my  father  with  death  if  he  refused  to  give  up  his 
daughter;  and  I,  who  knew  that  there  was  no  chance 
of  escape,  except  here  before  you,  consented  to  become 
his  wife.  My  father  I  know  to  be  innocent,  for  all  his 
transactions  with  the  State  have  passed  through  my 
hands.  Citizen  representative,  I  demand  to  be  freed 
from  this  marriage;  and  I  charge  Schneider  as  a  traitor 
to  the  Republic,  as  a  man  who  would  have  murdered  an 
innocent  citizen  for  the  sake  of  private  gain." 

During  the  delivery  of  this  little  speech,  uncle  Jacob 


198  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

had  been  sobbing  and  panting  like  a  broken-winded 
horse ;  and  when  Mary  had  done,  he  rushed  up  to  her  and 
kissed  her  and  held  her  tight  in  his  arms.  "  Bless  thee, 
my  child!"  he  cried,  "for  having  had  the  courage  to 
speak  the  truth,  and  shame  thy  old  father  and  me,  who 
dared  not  say  a  word." 

"  The  girl  amazes  me,"  said  Schneider,  with  a  look 
of  astonishment.  "  I  never  saw  her,  it  is  true,  till  yes- 
terday; but  I  used  no  force:  her  father  gave  her  to  me 
with  his  free  consent,  and  she  yielded  as  gladly.  Speak, 
Edward  Ancel,  was  it  not  so?  " 

"  It  was,  indeed,  by  my  free  consent,"  said  Edward, 
trembling. 

"For  shame,  brother!"  cried  old  Jacob.  "Sir,  it 
was  by  Edward's  free  consent  and  my  niece's;  but  the 
guillotine  was  in  the  court-yard!  Question  Schneider's 
famulus,  the  man  Gregoire,  him  who  reads  '  The  Sor- 
rows of  Werter.'  " 

Gregoire  stepped  forward,  and  looked  hesitatingly  at 
Schneider,  as  he  said,  "  I  know  not  what  took  place 
within  doors;  but  I  was  ordered  to  put  up  the  scaffold 
without;  and  I  was  told  to  get  soldiers,  and  let  no  one 
leave  the  house." 

"  Citizen  St.  Just,"  cried  Schneider,  "  you  will  not 
allow  the  testimony  of  a  ruffian  like  this,  of  a  foolish 
girl,  and  a  mad  ex-priest,  to  weigh  against  the  word  of 
one  who  has  done  such  service  to  the  Republic:  it  is  a 
base  conspiracy  to  betray  me ;  the  whole  family  is  known 
to  favour  the  interest  of  the  emigres" 

"  And  therefore  you  would  marry  a  member  of  the 
family,  and  allow  the  others  to  escape;  you  must  make 
a  better  defence,  citizen  Schneider,"  said  St.  Just, 
sternly. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  ANCEL       199 

Here  I  came  forward  and  said  that,  three  days  since, 
I  had  received  an  order  to  quit  Strasburg  for  Paris  im- 
mediately after  a  conversation  with  Schneider,  in  which 
I  had  asked  him  his  aid  in  promoting  my  marriage  with 
my  cousin,  INIary  Ancel ;  that  he  had  heard  from  me  full 
accounts  regarding  her  father's  wealth;  and  that  he 
had  abruptly  caused  my  dismissal,  in  order  to  carry  on 
his  scheme  against  her. 

"  You  are  in  the  uniform  of  a  regiment  in  this  town; 
who  sent  you  from  it?  "  said  St.  Just. 

I  produced  the  order,  signed  by  himself,  and  the 
despatches  which  Schneider  had  sent  me. 

"  The  signature  is  mine,  but  the  despatches  did  not 
come  from  my  office.  Can  you  prove  in  any  way  your 
conversation  with  Schneider?  " 

"  Why,"  said  my  sentimental  friend  Gregoire,  "  for 
the  matter  of  that,  I  can  answer  that  the  lad  was  always 
talking  about  this  young  woman:  he  told  me  the  whole 
story  himself,  and  many  a  good  laugh  I  had  with  citizen 
Schneider  as  we  talked  about  it." 

"  The  charge  against  Edward  Ancel  must  be  exam- 
ined into,"  said  St.  Just.  "  The  marriage  cannot  take 
place.  But  if  I  had  ratified  it,  :Mary  Ancel,  what  would 
then  have  been  your  course?  " 

Mary  felt  for  a  moment  in  her  bosom,  and  said—'"  He 

would  have  died  to-night— I  would  have  stabbed  him 

with  this  dagger} 

***** 

The  rain  was  beating  down  the  streets,  and  yet  they 

were   thronged;   all   the   world   was   hastening   to   the 

market-place,  where  the  worthy  Gregoire  was  about  to 

1  This  reply,  and  indeed,  the  whole  of  the  story,  is  historical.     An  account, 
by  Charles  Nodier,  in  the  Revue  de  Paris,  suggested  it  to  the  writer. 


200  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

perform  some  of  the  pleasant  duties  of  his  office.  On 
this  occasion,  it  was  not  death  that  he  was  to  inflict;  he 
was  only  to  expose  a  criminal  who  was  to  be  sent  on 
afterwards  to  Paris.  St.  Just  had  ordered  that  Schnei- 
der should  stand  for  six  hours  in  the  public  place  of 
Strasburg,  and  then  be  sent  on  to  the  capital,  to  be 
dealt  with  as  the  authorities  might  think  fit. 

The  people  followed  with  execrations  the  villain  to  his 
place  of  jiunishment;  and  Gregoire  grinned  as  he  fixed 
up  to  the  post  the  man  whose  orders  he  had  obeyed  so 
often — who  had  delivered  over  to  disgrace  and  punish- 
ment so  many  who  merited  it  not. 

Schneider  was  left  for  several  hours  exposed  to  the 
mockery  and  insults  of  the  mob ;  he  was  then,  according 
to  his  sentence,  marched  on  to  Paris,  where  it  is  probable 
that  he  would  have  escaped  death,  but  for  his  own  fault. 
He  was  left  for  some  time  in  prison,  quite  unnoticed, 
perhaps  forgotten:  day  by  day  fresh  victims  were  car- 
ried to  the  scaffold,  and  yet  the  Alsatian  tribune  re- 
mained alive;  at  last,  by  the  mediation  of  one  of  his 
friends,  a  long  petition  was  presented  to  Robespierre, 
stating  his  services  and  his  innocence,  and  demanding 
his  freedom.  The  reply  to  this  was  an  order  for  his 
instant  execution:  the  wretch  died  in  the  last  days  of 
Robespierre's  reign.  His  comrade,  St.  Just,  followed 
him,  as  you  know ;  but  Edward  Ancel  had  been  released 
before  this,  for  the  action  of  my  brave  Maiy  had  created 
a  strong  feeling  in  his  favour. 

"And  Mary?"  said  I. 

Here  a  stout  and  smiling  old  lady  entered  the  Cap- 
tain's little  room :  she  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  mili- 
tary-looking man  of  some  forty  years,  and  followed  by 
a  number  of  noisy,  rosy  children. 


THE   STORY   OF   MARY   AXCEL      201 

"  This  is  Mary  Ancel,"  said  the  Captain,  "  and  I  am 
Captain  Pierre,  and  yonder  is  the  Colonel,  my  son;  and 
you  see  us  here  assembled  in  force,  for  it  is  the  fete  of 
little  Jacob  yonder,  whose  brothers  and  sisters  have  all 
come  from  their  schools  to  dance  at  his  birthday." 


BEATRICE    MERGER 

BEATRICE  :MERGER,  whose  name  might  figure 
at  the  head  of  one  of  Mr.  Colburn's  pohtest  ro- 
mances— so  smooth  and  aristocratic  does  it  sound — is 
no  heroine,  except  of  her  own  simple  history;  she  is  not 
a  fashionable  French  Countess,  nor  even  a  victim  of  the 
Revolution. 


She  is  a  stout,  sturdy  girl  of  two-and-twenty,  with 
a  face  beaming  with  good  nature,  and  marked  dread- 
fully by  small-pox;  and  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  which 
might  have  done  some  execution  had  they  been  placed 
in  a  smoother  face.  Beatrice's  station  in  society  is  not 
very  exalted ;  she  is  a  servant  of  all  work :  she  will  dress 

202 


BEATRICE    MERGER  203 

your  wife,  your  dinner,  your  children;  she  does  beef- 
steaks and  plain  work;  she  makes  beds,  blacks  boots, 
and  waits  at  table;— such,  at  least,  were  the  offices  which 
she  performed  in  the  fashionable  establishment  of  the 
writer  of  this  book :  perhaps  her  history  may  not  inaptly 
occupy  a  few  pages  of  it. 

"  My  father  died,"  said  Beatrice,  "  about  six  years 
since,  and  left  my  poor  mother  with  little  else  but  a 
small  cottage  and  a  strip  of  land,  and  four  children  too 
young  to  work.  It  was  hard  enough  in  my  father's  time 
to  supply  so  many  little  mouths  with  food ;  and  how  was 
a  poor  widowed  woman  to  provide  for  them  now,  who 
had  neither  the  strength  nor  the  opportunity  for  labour? 

"  Besides  us,  to  be  sure,  there  was  my  old  aunt ;  and 
she  would  have  helped  us,  but  she  could  not,  for  the  old 
woman  is  bed-ridden ;  so  she  did  nothing  but  occupy  our 
best  room,  and  grumble  from  morning  till  night :  heaven 
knows,  poor  old  soul,  that  she  had  no  great  reason  to  be 
very  happy;  for  you  know,  sir,  that  it  frets  the  temper 
to  be  sick ;  and  that  it  is  worse  still  to  be  sick  and  hungry 
too. 

"  At  that  time,  in  the  country  where  we  lived  (in 
Picardy,  not  very  far  from  Boulogne),  times  were  so 
bad  that  the  best  workman  could  hardly  find  employ; 
and  when  he  did,  he  was  happy  if  he  could  earn  a  matter 
of  twelve  sous  a  day.  INIother,  work  as  she  Mould,  could 
not  gain  more  than  six;  and  it  was  a  hard  job,  out  of 
this,  to  put  meat  into  six  bellies,  and  clothing  on  six 
backs.  Old  Aunt  Bridget  would  scold,  as  she  got  her 
portion  of  black  bread;  and  my  little  brothers  used  to 
cry  if  theirs  did  not  come  in  time.  I,  too,  used  to  cry 
when  I  got  my  share ;  for  mother  kept  only  a  little,  little 
piece  for  herself,  and  said  that  she  had  dined  in  the 


204  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

fields, — God  pardon  her  for  the  lie!  and  bless  her,  as 
I  am  sure  He  did ;  for,  but  for  Him,  no  working  man  or 
woman  could  subsist  upon  such  a  wretched  morsel  as  my 
dear  mother  took. 

"  I  was  a  thin,  ragged,  barefooted  girl,  then,  and 
sickly  and  weak  for  want  of  food;  but  I  think  I  felt 
mother's  hunger  more  than  my  own:  and  many  and 
many  a  bitter  night  I  lay  awake,  crying,  and  praying  to 
God  to  give  me  means  of  working  for  myself  and  aiding 
her.  And  He  has,  indeed,  been  good  to  me,"  said  pious 
Beatrice,  "  for  He  has  given  me  all  this! 

"  Well,  time  rolled  on,  and  matters  grew  worse  than 
ever:  winter  came,  and  was  colder  to  us  than  any  other 
winter,  for  our  clothes  were  thinner  and  more  torn; 
mother  sometimes  could  find  no  work,  for  the  fields  in 
which  she  laboured  were  hidden  under  the  snow ;  so  that 
when  we  wanted  them  most  we  had  them  least — warmth, 
work,  or  food. 

"  I  knew  that,  do  what  I  would,  mother  would  never 
let  me  leave  her,  because  I  looked  to  my  little  brothers 
and  my  old  cripple  of  an  aunt;  but  still,  bread  was  bet- 
ter for  us  than  all  my  service;  and  when  I  left  them 
the  six  would  have  a  slice  more;  so  I  determined  to  bid 
good-by  to  nobody,  but  to  go  away,  and  look  for  work 
elsewhere.  One  Sunday,  when  mother  and  the  little  ones 
were  at  church,  I  went  in  to  Aunt  Bridget,  and  said, 
*  Tell  mother,  when  she  comes  back,  that  Beatrice  is 
gone.'    I  spoke  quite  stoutly,  as  if  I  did  not  care  about  it. 

"  '  Gone!  gone  where? '  said  she.  '  You  ain't  going  to 
leave  me  alone,  you  nasty  thing;  you  ain't  going  to  the 
village  to  dance,  you  ragged,  barefooted  slut:  you're 
all  of  a  piece  in  this  house, — your  mother,  your  brothers, 
and  you.    I  know  you've  got  meat  in  the  kitchen,  and 


BEATRICE    MERGER  205 

you  only  give  me  black  bread ; '  and  here  the  old  lady 
began  to  scream  as  if  her  heart  would  break ;  but  we  did 
not  mind  it,  we  were  so  used  to  it. 

Aunt,'  said  I,  '  I'm  going,  and  took  this  very  op- 
portunity because  you  were  alone :  tell  mother  I  am  too 
old  now  to  eat  her  bread,  and  do  no  work  for  it:  I  am 
going,  please  God,  where  work  and  bread  can  be  found : ' 
and  so  I  kissed  her :  she  was  so  astonished  that  she  could 
not  move  or  speak;  and  I  walked  away  through  the  old 
room,  and  the  little  garden,  God  knows  whither! 

"  I  heard  the  old  woman  screaming  after  me,  but  I 
did  not  stop  nor  turn  round.  I  don't  think  I  could,  for 
my  heart  was  very  full;  and  if  I  had  gone  back  again, 
I  should  never  have  had  the  courage  to  go  away.  So  I 
walked  a  long,  long  way,  until  night  fell ;  and  I  thought 
of  poor  mother  coming  home  from  mass,  and  not  finding 
me ;  and  little  Pierre  shouting  out,  in  his  clear  voice,  for 
Beatrice  to  bring  him  his  supper.  I  think  I  should  like 
to  have  died  that  night,  and  I  thought  I  should  too ;  for 
when  I  was  obliged  to  throw  myself  on  the  cold,  hard 
ground,  my  feet  were  too  torn  and  weary  to  bear  me 
any  further. 

"  Just  then  the  moon  got  up;  and  do  you  know  I  felt 
a  comfort  in  looking  at  it,  for  I  knew  it  was  shining 
on  our  little  cottage,  and  it  seemed  like  an  old  friend's 
face?  A  little  way  on,  as  I  saw  by  the  moon,  was  a 
village :  and  I  saw,  too,  that  a  man  was  coming  towards 
me ;  he  must  have  heard  me  crying,  I  suppose. 

"  Was  not  God  good  to  me?  This  man  was  a  farmer, 
who  had  need  of  a  girl  in  his  house;  he  made  me  tell  him 
why  I  was  alone,  and  I  told  him  the  same  story  I  have 
told  you,  and  he  believed  me  and  took  me  home.  I  had 
walked  six  long  leagues  from  our  \allage  that  day,  ask- 


206         THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

ing  everywhere  for  work  in  vain ;  and  here,  at  bed-time, 
I  found  a  bed  and  a  supper! 

"  Here  I  lived  very  well  for  some  months ;  my  master 
was  very  good  and  kind  to  me ;  but,  unluckily,  too  poor  to 
give  me  any  wages ;  so  that  I  could  save  nothing  to  send 
to  my  poor  mother.  My  mistress  used  to  scold ;  but  I  was 
used  to  that  at  home,  from  Aunt  Bridget:  and  she  beat 
me  sometimes,  but  I  did  not  mind  it;  for  your  hardy 
country  girl  is  not  like  your  tender  town  lasses,  who  cry 
if  a  pin  pricks  them,  and  give  warning  to  their  mis- 
tresses at  the  first  hard  word.  The  only  drawback  to  my 
comfort  was,  that  I  had  no  news  of  my  mother ;  I  could 
not  write  to  her,  nor  could  she  have  read  my  letter, 
if  I  had;  so  there  I  was,  at  only  six  leagues'  distance 
from  home,  as  far  off  as  if  I  had  been  to  Paris  or  to 
'Merica. 

"  However,  in  a  few  months  I  grew  so  listless  and 
homesick,  that  my  mistress  said  she  would  keep  me 
no  longer;  and  though  I  went  away  as  poor  as  I  came, 
I  was  still  too  glad  to  go  back  to  the  old  village  again, 
and  see  dear  mother,  if  it  were  but  for  a  day.  I  knew 
she  would  share  her  crust  with  me,  as  she  had  done  for  so 
long  a  time  before ;  and  hoped  that,  now,  as  I  was  taller 
and  stronger,  I  might  find  work  more  easily  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

"  You  may  fancy  what  a  fete  it  was  when  I  came 
back ;  though  I'm  sure  we  cried  as  much  as  if  it  had  been 
a  funeral.  Mother  got  into  a  fit,  which  frightened  us 
all;  and  as  for  Aunt  Bridget,  she  skreeled  away  for 
hours  together,  and  did  not  scold  for  two  days  at  least. 
Little  Pierre  offered  me  the  whole  of  his  supper;  poor 
little  man!  his  slice  of  bread  was  no  bigger  than  before 
I  went  away. 


BEATRICE    MERGER  207 

"  Well,  I  got  a  little  work  here,  and  a  little  there ; 
but  still  I  was  a  burden  at  home  rather  than  a  bread-win- 
ner; and,  at  the  closing-in  of  the  winter,  was  very  glad  to 
hear  of  a  place  at  two  leagues'  distance,  where  work,  they 
said,  was  to  be  had.  Off  I  set,  one  morning,  to  find  it, 
but  missed  my  way  somehow,  until  it  was  night-time 
before  I  arrived.  Night-time  and  snow  again ;  it  seemed 
as  if  all  my  journeys  were  to  be  made  in  this  bitter 
weather. 

"  When  I  came  to  the  farmer's  door,  his  house  was 
shut  up,  and  his  people  all  a-bed;  I  knocked  for  a  long 
while  in  vain ;  at  last  he  made  his  appearance  at  a  window 
upstairs,  and  seemed  so  frightened,  and  looked  so  angry 
that  I  suppose  he  took  me  for  a  thief.  I  told  him  how 
I  had  come  for  work.  '  Who  comes  for  work  at  such  an 
hour? '  said  he.  '  Go  home,  you  impudent  baggage,  and 
do  not  disturb  honest  people  out  of  their  sleep.'  He 
banged  the  window  to;  and  so  I  was  left  alone  to  shift 
for  myself  as  I  might.  There  was  no  shed,  no  cow- 
house, where  I  could  find  a  bed;  so  I  got  under  a  cart, 
on  some  straw ;  it  was  no  very  warm  berth.  I  could  not 
sleep  for  the  cold :  and  the  hours  passed  so  slowly,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  I  had  been  there  a  week,  instead  of  a  night ; 
but  still  it  was  not  so  bad  as  the  first  night  when  I  left 
home,  and  when  the  good  farmer  found  me. 

"  In  the  morning,  before  it  was  light,  the  farmer's 
people  came  out,  and  saw  me  crouching  under  the  cart : 
tliey  told  me  to  get  up;  but  I  was  so  cold  that  I  could 
not :  at  last  the  man  himself  came,  and  recognized  me  as 
the  girl  who  had  disturbed  him  the  night  before.  When 
he  heard  my  name,  and  the  j^urpose  for  which  I  came, 
this  good  man  took  me  into  the  house,  and  put  me 
into  one  of  the  beds  out  of  which  his  sons  had  just  got; 


208  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

and,  if  I  was  cold  before,  you  may  be  sure  I  was  warm 
and  comfortable  now!  such  a  bed  as  this  I  had  never 
slept  in,  nor  ever  did  I  have  such  good  milk-soup  as  he 
gave  me  out  of  his  own  breakfast.  Well,  he  agreed  to 
hire  me;  and  what  do  you  think  he  gave  me? — six  sous 
a  day!  and  let  me  sleep  in  the  cow-house  besides:  you 
may  fancy  how  happy  I  was  now,  at  the  prospect  of 
earning  so  much  money. 

"  There  was  an  old  woman  among  the  labourers  who 
used  to  sell  us  soup :  I  got  a  cupful  every  day  for  a  half- 
penny, with  a  bit  of  bread  in  it ;  and  might  eat  as  much 
beet-root  besides  as  I  liked ;  not  a  very  wholesome  meal, 
to  be  sure,  but  God  took  care  that  it  should  not  disagree 
with  me. 

"  So,  every  Saturday,  when  work  was  over,  I  had 
thirty  sous  to  carry  home  to  mother ;  and  tired  though  I 
was,  I  walked  merrily  the  two  leagues  to  our  village,  to 
see  her  again.  On  the  road  there  was  a  great  wood  to 
pass  through,  and  this  frightened  me;  for  if  a  thief 
should  come  and  rob  me  of  my  whole  week's  earnings, 
what  could  a  poor  lone  girl  do  to  help  herself?  But 
I  found  a  remedy  for  this  too,  and  no  thieves  ever  came 
near  me ;  I  used  to  begin  saying  my  prayers  as  I  entered 
the  forest,  and  never  stopped  until  I  was  safe  at  home; 
and  safe  I  always  arrived,  with  my  thirty  sous  in  my 
pocket.  Ah !  you  may  be  sure,  Sunday  was  a  merry  day 
for  us  all." 

This  is  the  whole  of  Beatrice's  history  which  is  worthy 
of  publication;  the  rest  of  it  only  relates  to  her  arrival 
in  Paris,  and  the  various  masters  and  mistresses  whom 
she  there  had  the  honour  to  serve.  As  soon  as  she 
enters  the  capital  the  romance  disappears,  and  the  poor 
girl's  sufferings  and  privations  luckily  vanish  with  it. 


BEATRICE    MERGER  209 

Beatrice  has  got  now  warm  gowns,  and  stout  shoes,  and 
plenty  of  good  food.  She  has  had  her  httle  brother 
from  Picardy;  clothed,  fed,  and  educated  him:  that 
young  gentleman  is  now  a  carpenter,  and  an  honour 
to  his  profession.  JNIadame  Merger  is  in  easy  circum- 
stances, and  receives,  yearly,  fifty  francs  from  her 
daughter.  To  crown  all,  INIademoiselle  Beatrice  herself 
is  a  funded  proprietor,  and  consulted  the  writer  of  this 
biography  as  to  the  best  method  of  laying  out  a  capital 
of  two  hundred  francs,  which  is  the  present  amount  of 
her  fortune. 

God  bless  her!  she  is  richer  than  his  Grace  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire;  and,  I  dare  to  say,  has,  in  her  humble 
walk,  been  more  virtuous  and  more  happy  than  all  the 
dukes  in  the  realm. 

It  is,  indeed,  for  the  benefit  of  dukes  and  such  great 
people  (who,  I  make  no  doubt,  have  long  since  ordered 
copies  of  these  Sketches,)  that  poor  little  Beatrice's 
story  has  been  indited.  Certain  it  is,  that  the  young 
woman  would  never  have  been  immortalized  in  this  way, 
but  for  the  good  which  her  betters  may  derive  from  her 
example.  If  your  ladyship  will  but  reflect  a  little,  after 
boasting  of  the  sums  which  you  spend  in  charity;  the 
beef  and  blankets  which  you  dole  out  at  Christmas ;  the 
poonah-painting  which  you  execute  for  fancy  fairs; 
the  long,  long  sermons  which  you  listen  to  at  St. 
George's,  the  whole  year  through;— your  ladyship,  I 
say,  will  allow  that,  although  perfectly  meritorious  in 
your  line,  as  a  patroness  of  the  Church  of  England,  of 
Almack's  and  of  the  Lying-in  Asylum,  yours  is  but  a 
paltry  sphere  of  virtue,  a  pitiful  attempt  at  benevolence, 
and  that  this  honest  servant-girl  puts  you  to  shame! 
And  you,  my  Lord  Bishop :  do  you,  out  of  your  six  sous 


210         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

a  day,  give  away  five  to  support  your  flock  and  family? 
Would  you  drop  a  single  coach-horse  (I  do  not  say  a 
dinner^  for  such  a  notion  is  monstrous,  in  one  of  your 
lordship's  degree),  to  feed  any  one  of  the  starving  chil- 
dren of  your  lordship's  mother— the  Church? 

I  pause  for  a  reply.  His  lordship  took  too  much  tur- 
tle and  cold  punch  for  dinner  yesterday,  and  cannot 
speak  just  now;  but  we  have,  by  this  ingenious  question, 
silenced  him  altogether :  let  the  world  wag  as  it  will,  and 
poor  Christians  and  curates  starve  as  they  may,  my 
lord's  footmen  must  have  their  new  liveries,  and  his 
horses  their  four  feeds  a  day. 

***** 

When  we  recollect  his  speech  about  the  Catholics 
— when  we  remember  his  last  charity  sermon,— but  I  say 
nothing.  Here  is  a  poor  benighted  superstitious  crea- 
ture, worshipping  images,  without  a  rag  to  her  tail,  who 
has  as  much  faith,  and  humility,  and  charity,  as  all  the 
reverend  bench. 

***** 

This  angel  is  without  a  place;  and  for  this  reason 
(besides  the  pleasure  of  composing  the  above  slap  at 
episcopacy)  — I  have  indited  her  history.  If  the  Bishop 
is  going  to  Paris,  and  wants  a  good  honest  maid-of -all- 
work,  he  can  have  her,  I  have  no  doubt ;  or  if  he  chooses 
to  give  a  few  pounds  to  her  mother,  they  can  be  sent  to 
Mr.  Titmarsh,  at  the  publisher's. 

Here  is  Miss  Merger's  last  letter  and  autograph.  The 
note  was  evidently  composed  by  an  Ecrivain  public:— 

"  Madame, 
'' Ayant  ajms  par  ce  Monsieur,  que  vous  vous  portiez 
hien,  ainsi  que  Monsieur,  ayant  su  aussi  que  vous  par- 


BEATRICE    MERGER  211 

liez  de  moi  dans  voire  lettre  cette  nouvelle  m'a  fait  hien 
plaisir  Je  profile  de  Voccasion  pour  vous  faire  passer  ce 
petit  billet  oil  Je  voudrais  pouvoir  inenveloper  pour  al- 
ter vous  voir  et  pour  vous  dire  que  Je  suis  encore  sans 
place  Je  m'ennuye  tou jours  de  ne  pas  vous  voir  ainsi  que 
Minette  {Minette  is  a  cat)  qui  semhle  m'interroger  tour 
a  tour  et  deinander  ou  vous  etes.  Je  vous  envoy e  aussi 
la  note  du  linge  a  blanchir — aJi,  Madame!  Je  vais  cesser 
de  vous  ecrire  inais  non  de  vous  regretter." 


^^a-^ccc  me^a^ 


CARICATURES  AND  LITHOGRAPHY 

IN    PARIS 

FIFTY  years  ago  there  lived  at  Munich  a  poor  fel- 
low, by  name  Aloys  Senef elder,  who  was  in  so  little 
repute  as  an  author  and  artist,  that  printers  and  en- 
gravers refused  to  publish  his  works  at  their  own 
charges,  and  so  set  him  upon  some  plan  for  doing  without 
their  aid.  In  the  first  place,  Aloys  invented  a  certain 
kind  of  ink,  which  would  resist  the  action  of  the  acid 
that  is  usually  employed  by  engravers,  and  with  this  he 
made  his  experiments  upon  copper-plates,  as  long  as  he 
could  afford  to  purchase  them.  He  found  that  to  write 
upon  the  plates  backwards,  after  the  manner  of  en- 
gravers, required  much  skill  and  many  trials;  and  he 
thought  that,  were  he  to  practise  upon  any  other  polished 
surface — a  smooth  stone,  for  instance,  the  least  costly 
article  imaginable— he  might  spare  the  expense  of  the 
copper  until  he  had  sufficient  skill  to  use  it. 

One  day,  it  is  said,  that  Aloys  was  called  upon  to  write 
— rather  a  humble  composition  for  an  author  and  artist 
— a  washing-bill.  He  had  no  paper  at  hand,  and  so  he 
wrote  out  the  bill  with  some  of  his  newly-invented  ink 
upon  one  of  his  Kelheim  stones.  Some  time  afterwards 
he  thought  he  would  try  and  take  an  impression  of  his 
washing-bill:  he  did,  and  succeeded.  Such  is  the  story, 
which  the  reader  most  likely  knows  very  well ;  and  hav- 
ing alluded  to  the  origin  of  the  art,  we  shall  not  follow 
the  stream  through  its  windings  and  enlargement  after 

212 


CARICATURES   AND   LITHOGRAPHY    213 

it  issued  from  the  little  parent  rock,  or  fill  our  pages 
with  the  rest  of  the  pedigree.  Senefelder  invented 
Lithography.  His  invention  has  not  made  so  much 
noise  and  larum  in  the  world  as  some  others,  which  have 
an  origin  quite  as  humble  and  unromantic;  but  it  is  one 
to  which  we  owe  no  small  profit,  and  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure ;  and,  as  such,  we  are  bound  to  speak  of  it  with 
all  gratitude  and  respect.  The  schoolmaster,  who  is 
now  abroad,  has  taught  us,  in  our  youth,  how  the  cultiva- 
tion of  art  "emollit  mores  nee  sinit  esse"— (it  is  need- 
less to  finish  the  quotation)  ;  and  Lithography  has  been, 
to  our  thinking,  the  very  best  ally  that  art  ever  had ;  the 
best  friend  of  the  artist,  allowing  him  to  produce  rapidly 
multiplied  and  authentic  copies  of  his  own  works  (with- 
out trusting  to  the  tedious  and  expensive  assistance  of 
the  engraver)  ;  and  the  best  friend  to  the  people  like- 
wise, who  have  means  of  purchasing  these  cheap  and 
beautiful  productions,  and  thus  having  their  ideas  "  mol- 
lified "  and  their  manners  "  feros  "  no  more. 

With  ourselves,  among  whom  money  is  plenty,  en- 
terprise so  great,  and  everything  matter  of  commercial 
speculation.  Lithography  has  not  been  so  much  practised 
as  wood  or  steel  engraving;  which,  by  the  aid  of  great 
original  capital  and  spread  of  sale,  are  able  more  than 
to  compete  with  the  art  of  drawing  on  stone.  The  two 
former  may  be  called  art  done  by  machinery.  We  con- 
fess to  a  prejudice  in  favour  of  the  honest  work  of  hand, 
in  matters  of  art,  and  prefer  the  rough  workmanship  of 
the  painter  to  the  smooth  copies  of  his  performances 
which  are  produced,  for  the  most  part,  on  the  wood- 
block or  the  steel-plate. 

The  theory  will  possibly  be  objected  to  by  many  of 
our  readers:  the  best  proof  in  its  favour,  we  think,  is, 


214  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

that  the  state  of  art  amongst  the  people  in  France  and 
Germany,  where  pubhshers  are  not  so  wealthy  or  enter- 
prising as  with  us,^  and  where  Lithography  is  more 
practised,  is  infinitely  higher  than  in  England,  and  the 
appreciation  more  correct.  As  draughtsmen,  the  French 
and  German  painters  are  incomparably  superior  to  our 
own;  and  with  art,  as  with  any  other  commodity,  the 
demand  will  be  found  pretty  equal  to  the  supply:  with 
us,  the  general  demand  is  for  neatness,  prettiness,  and 
what  is  called  effect  in  pictures,  and  these  can  be  ren- 
dered completely,  nay,  improved,  by  the  engraver's  con- 
ventional manner  of  copying  the  artist's  performances. 
But  to  copy  fine  expression  and  fine  drawing,  the  en- 
graver himself  must  be  a  fine  artist;  and  let  anybody 
examine  the  host  of  picture-books  which  appear  every 
Christmas,  and  say  whether,  for  the  most  part,  painters 
or  engravers  possess  any  artistic  merit?  We  boast, 
nevertheless,  of  some  of  the  best  engravers  and  painters 
in  Europe.  Here,  again,  the  supply  is  accounted  for  by 
the  demand;  our  highest  class  is  richer  than  any  other 
aristocracy,  quite  as  well  instructed,  and  can  judge  and 
pay  for  fine  pictures  and  engravings.  But  these  costly 
productions  are  for  the  few,  and  not  for  the  many,  who 
have  not  yet  certainly  arrived  at  properly  appreciating 
fine  art. 

Take  the  standard  "  Album  "  for  instance— that  un- 
fortunate collection  of  deformed  Zuleikas  and  Medoras 
(from  the  "Byron  Beauties"),  the  Flowers,  Gems, 
Souvenirs,  Caskets  of  Loveliness,  Beauty,  as  they  may 
be   called;    glaring   caricatures   of   flowers,    singly,    in 

1  These  countries  are,  to  be  sure,  inundated  with  the  productions  of  our 
market,  in  the  shape  of  Byron  Beauties,  reprints  from  the  "Keepsakes," 
"Books  of  Beauty,"  and  such  trash;  but  these  are  only  of  late  years,  and 
their  original  schools  of  art  are  still  flourishing. 


The  Cheap  Defence  of  Nations 

A    NATIONAL   GUARD   ON    DOTY 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY    215 

groups,  in  flower-pots,  or  with  hideous  deformed  Httle 
Cupids  sporting  among  them;  of  what  are  called  "  mez- 
zotinto  "  pencil  -  drawings,  "  poonah  -  paintings,"  and 
what  not.  "  The  Album  "  is  to  be  found  invariably  upon 
the  round  rosewood  brass-inlaid  drawing-room  table  of 
the  middle  classes,  and  with  a  couple  of  "  Annuals  " 
besides,  which  flank  it  on  the  same  table,  represents  the 
art  of  the  house ;  perhaps  there  is  a  portrait  of  the  master 
of  the  house  in  the  dining-room,  grim-glancing  from 
above  the  mantelpiece;  and  of  the  mistress  over  the 
piano  upstairs;  add  to  these  some  odious  miniatures 
of  the  sons  and  daughters,  on  each  side  of  the  chimney- 
glass;  and  here,  commonly  (we  appeal  to  the  reader  if 
this  is  an  overcharged  picture),  the  collection  ends. 
The  family  goes  to  the  Exhibition  once  a  year,  to  the 
National  Gallery  once  in  ten  years:  to  the  former  place 
they  have  an  inducement  to  go;  there  are  their  own 
portraits,  or  the  portraits  of  their  friends,  or  the  por- 
traits of  public  characters;  and  you  will  see  them  in- 
fallibly wondering  over  No.  2645  in  the  catalogue,  rep- 
resenting "  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  or  of  the  "  First 
Mayor  of  Little  Pedlington  since  the  passing  of  the 
Reform  Bill;  "  or  else  bustling  and  squeezing  among  the 
miniatures,  where  lies  the  chief  attraction  of  the  Gallery. 
England  has  produced,  owing  to  the  eff*ects  of  this  class 
of  admirers  of  art,  two  admirable,  and  five  hundred  very 
clever,  portrait-painters.  How  many  artists?  Let  the 
reader  count  upon  his  five  fingers,  and  see  if,  living  at 
the  present  moment,  he  can  name  one  for  each. 

If,  from  this  examination  of  our  own  worthy  middle 
classes,  we  look  to  the  same  class  in  France,  what  a 
diff'erence  do  we  find !  Humble  cafes  in  country  towns 
have  their  walls  covered  with  pleasing  picture  papers, 


216  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

representing  '^Les  Gloires  de  I'Armee  Franfaise/'  the 
"  Seasons,"  the  "  Four  Quarters  of  the  World,"  "  Cupid 
and  Psyche,"  or  some  other  allegory,  landscape  or  his- 
,  tory,  rudely  painted,  as  papers  for  walls  usually  are ;  but 
the  figures  are  all  tolerably  well  drawn ;  and  the  common 
taste,  which  has  caused  a  demand  for  such  things,  is  un- 
deniable. In  Paris,  the  manner  in  which  the  cafes  and 
houses  of  the  restaurateurs  are  ornamented,  is,  of  course, 
a  thousand  times  richer,  and  nothing  can  be  more  beauti- 
ful, or  more  exquisitely  finished  and  correct,  than  the  de- 
signs which  adorn  many  of  them.  We  are  not  prepared 
to  say  what  sums  were  expended  upon  the  painting  of 
"  Very's  "  or  "  Vefour's,"  of  the  "  Salle  Musard,"  or  of 
numberless  other  places  of  public  resort  in  the  capital. 
There  is  many  a  shop-keeper  whose  sign  is  a  very  tol- 
erable picture;  and,  often  have  we  stopped  to  admire 
(the  reader  will  give  us  credit  for  having  remained 
outside)  the  excellent  workmanship  of  the  grapes  and 
vine-leaves  over  the  door  of  some  very  humble,  dirty,  in- 
odorous shop  of  a  marchand  de  vin. 

These,  however,  serve  only  to  educate  the  public  taste, 
and  are  ornaments  for  the  most  part  much  too  costly  for 
the  people.  But  the  same  love  of  ornament  which  is 
shown  in  their  public  places  of  resort,  appears  in  their 
houses  likewise;  and  every  one  of  our  readers  who  has 
lived  in  Paris,  in  any  lodging,  magnificent  or  humble, 
with  any  family,  however  poor,  may  bear  witness  how 
profusely  the  walls  of  his  smart  salon  in  the  English 
quarter,  or  of  his  little  room  au  sixihne  in  the  Pays 
Latin,  has  been  decorated  with  prints  of  all  kinds.  In 
the  first,  probably,  with  bad  engravings  on  copper  from 
the  bad  and  tawdry  pictures  of  the  artists  of  the  time  of 
the  Empire;  in  the  latter,  with  gay  caricatures  of  Gran- 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY     217 

ville  or  jMonnier:  military  pieces,  such  as  are  dashed  off 
by  Raffet,  Charlet,  Vernet  (one  can  hardly  say  which  of 
the  three  designers  has  the  greatest  merit,  or  the  most 
vigorous  hand)  ;  or  clever  pictures  from  the  crayon  of 
the  Deverias,  the  admirable  Roqueplan,  or  Decamp. 
We  have  named  here,  we  believe,  the  principal  litho- 
graphic artists  in  Paris;  and  those — as  doubtless  there 
are  many — of  our  readers  who  have  looked  over  iSIon- 
sieur  Aubert's  portfolios,  or  gazed  at  that  famous  cari- 
cature-shop window  in  the  Rue  de  Coq,  or  are  even 
acquainted  with  the  exterior  of  JMonsieur  Delaporte's 
little  emporium  in  the  Burlington  Arcade,  need  not  be 
told  how  excellent  the  productions  of  all  these  artists 
are  in  their  genre.  We  get  in  these  engravings  the  loisirs 
of  men  of  genius,  not  the  finikin  performances  of  la- 
boured mediocrity,  as  with  us:  all  these  artists  are  good 
painters,  as  well  as  good  designers ;  a  design  from  them 
is  worth  a  whole  gross  of  Books  of  Beauty;  and  if  we 
might  raise  a  humble  supplication  to  the  artists  in  our 
own  country  of  similar  merit — to  such  men  as  Leslie, 
Maclise,  Herbert,  Cattermole,  and  others— it  would  be, 
that  they  should,  after  the  example  of  their  French 
brethren  and  of  the  English  landscape  painters,  take 
chalk  in  hand,  produce  their  own  copies  of  their  own 
sketches,  and  never  more  draw  a  single  "  Forsaken 
One,"  "  Rejected  One,"  "  Dejected  One  "  at  the  en- 
treaty of  any  publisher  or  for  the  pages  of  any  Book 
of  Beauty,  Royalty,  or  Loveliness  whatever. 

Can  there  be  a  more  pleasing  walk  in  the  whole  world 
than  a  stroll  through  the  Gallery  of  the  Louvre  on  a 
fete-day;  not  to  look  so  much  at  the  pictures  as  at  the 
lookers-on?  Thousands  of  the  poorer  classes  are  there: 
mechanics  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  smiling  grisettes, 


218  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

smart  dapper  soldiers  of  the  line,  with  bronzed  wonder- 
ing faces,  marching  together  in  little  companies  of  six 
or  seven,  and  stopping  every  now  and  then  at  Napoleon 
or  Leonidas  as  they  appear  in  proper  vulgar  heroics  in 
the  pictures  of  David  or  Gros.  The  taste  of  these  people 
will  hardly  be  approved  by  the  connoisseur,  but  they 
have  a  taste  for  art.  Can  the  same  be  said  of  our  lower 
classes,  who,  if  they  are  inclined  to  be  sociable  and 
amused  in  their  holidays,  have  no  place  of  resort  but  the 
tap-room  or  tea-garden,  and  no  food  for  conversation  ex- 
cept such  as  can  be  built  upon  the  politics  or  the  police  re- 
ports of  the  last  Sunday  paper?  So  much  has  Church  and 
State  Puritanism  done  for  us — so  well  has  it  succeeded 
in  materializing  and  binding  down  to  the  earth  the  im- 
agination of  men,  for  which  God  has  made  another  world 
(which  certain  statesmen  take  but  too  little  into  account) 
—that  fair  and  beautiful  world  of  art,  in  which  there 
can  be  nothing  selfish  or  sordid,  of  which  Dulness  has 
forgotten  the  existence,  and  which  Bigotry  has  endea- 
voured to  shut  out  from  sight— 

"  On  a  banni  les  demons  et  les  fees, 
Le  raisonner  tristement  s'accredite : 
On  court,  helas !  apres  la  verite : 
Ah !  croyez  moi,  I'erreur  a  son  merite ! " 

We  are  not  putting  in  a  plea  here  for  demons  and 
fairies,  as  Voltaire  does  in  the  above  exquisite  lines;  nor 
about  to  expatiate  on  the  beauties  of  error,  for  it  has 
none ;  but  the  clank  of  steam-engines,  and  the  shouts  of 
politicians,  and  the  struggle  for  gain  or  bread,  and  the 
loud  denunciations  of  stupid  bigots,  have  well  nigh 
smothered  poor  Fancy  among  us.     We  boast  of  our 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY    219 

science,  and  vaunt  our  superior  morality.     Does  the 
latter  exist?    In  spite  of  all  the  forms  which  our  policy 
has  invented  to  secure  it— in  spite  of  all  the  preachers,  all 
the  meeting-houses,  and  all  the  legislative  enactments 
—if  any  person  will  take  upon  himself  the  painful  labour 
of  purchasing  and  perusing  some  of  the  cheap  periodical 
prints  which  form  the  people's  library  of  amusement, 
and  contain  what  may  be  presumed  to  be  their  standard 
in  matters  of  imagination  and  fancy,  he  will  see  how 
false  the  claim  is  that  we  bring  forward  of  superior 
morality.    The  aristocracy  who  are  so  eager  to  maintain, 
were,  of  course,  not  the  last  to  feel  the  annoyance  of 
the  legislative  restrictions  on  the  Sabbath,  and  eagerly 
seized  upon  that  happy  invention  for  dissipating  the 
gloom  and  eniiui  ordered  by  Act  of  Parliament  to  pre- 
vail on  that  day— the  Sunday  paper.    It  might  be  read 
in  a  club-room,  where  the  poor  could  not  see  how  their 
betters  ordained  one  thing  for  the  vulgar,  and  another 
for  themselves ;  or  in  an  easy-chair,  in  the  study,  whither 
my  lord  retires  every  Sunday  for  his  devotions.    It  dealt 
in  private  scandal  and  ribaldry,  only  the  more  piquant 
for  its  pretty  flimsy  veil  of  double-entendre.    It  was  a 
fortune  to  the  publisher,  and  it  became  a  necessary  to  the 
reader,  which  he  could  not  do  without,  any  more  than 
without  his  snufF-box,  his  opera-box,  or  his  chasse  after 
cofl'ee.     The  delightful  novelty  could  not  for  any  time 
be  kept  exclusively  for  the  haut  ton;  and  from  my  lord 
it  descended  to  his  valet  or  tradesmen,  and  from  Gros- 
venor  Square  it  spread  all  the  town  through ;  so  that  now 
the  lower  classes  have  their  scandal  and  ribaldry  organs, 
as  well  as  their  betters   (the  rogues,  they  will  imitate 
them!)  ;  and  as  their  tastes  are  somewhat  coarser  than  my 
lord's,  and  their  numbers  a  thousand  to  one,  why  of 


220  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

course  the  prints  have  increased,  and  the  profligacy  has 
been  diifused  in  a  ratio  exactly  proportionable  to  the 
demand,  until  the  town  is  infested  with  such  a  number 
of  monstrous  publications  of  the  kind  as  would  have 
put  Abbe  Dubois  to  the  blush,  or  made  Louis  XV.  cry 
shame.  Talk  of  English  morality!— the  worst  licen- 
tiousness, in  the  worst  period  of  the  French  monarchy, 
scarcely  equalled  the  wickedness  of  this  Sabbath -keeping 
country  of  ours. 

The  reader  will  be  glad,  at  last,  to  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  we  would  fain  draw  from  all  these  descrip- 
tions— why  does  this  immorality  exist?  Because  the 
people  7nust  be  amused,  and  have  not  been  taught  how; 
because  the  upper  classes,  frightened  by  stupid  cant,  or 
absorbed  in  material  wants,  have  not  as  yet  learned  the 
refinement  which  only  the  cultivation  of  art  can  give; 
and  when  their  intellects  are  uneducated,  and  their  tastes 
are  coarse,  the  tastes  and  amusements  of  classes  still 
more  ignorant  must  be  coarse  and  vicious  likewise,  in  an 
increased  proportion. 

Such  discussions  and  violent  attacks  upon  high  and 
low,  Sabbath  Bills,  politicians,  and  what  not,  may  appear, 
perhaps,  out  of  place  in  a  few  pages  which  purport  only 
to  give  an  account  of  some  French  draw^ings :  all  we  would 
urge  is,  that,  in  France,  these  prints  are  made  because 
they  are  liked  and  appreciated;  with  us  they  are  not 
made,  because  they  are  not  liked  and  appreciated:  and 
the  more  is  the  pity.  Nothing  merely  intellectual  will 
be  popular  among  us :  we  do  not  love  beauty  for  beauty's 
sake,  as  Germans ;  or  wit,  for  wit's  sake,  as  the  French : 
for  abstract  art  we  have  no  appreciation.  We  admire 
H.  B.'s  caricatures,  because  they  are  the  caricatures  of 
well-known  political  characters,  not  because  they  are 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY    221 

witty;  and  Boz,  because  he  writes  us  good  palpable 
stories  (if  we  may  use  such  a  word  to  a  story)  ;  and 
Madame  Vestris,  because  she  has  the  most  beautifully 
shaped  legs; — the  art  of  the  designer,  the  writer,  the 
actress  ( each  admirable  in  its  way, )  is  a  very  minor  con- 
sideration ;  each  might  have  ten  times  the  wit,  and  would 
be  quite  unsuccessful  without  their  substantial  points 
of  popularity. 

In  France  such  matters  are  far  better  managed,  and 
the  love  of  art  is  a  thousand  times  more  keen ;  and  ( from 
this  feeling,  surely)  how  much  superiority  is  there  in 
French  society  over  our  own;  how  much  better  is  social 
happiness  understood;  how  much  more  manly  equality 
is  there  between  Frenchman  and  Frenchman,  than  be- 
tween rich  and  poor  in  our  own  country,  with  all  our 
superior  wealth,  instruction,  and  political  freedom! 
There  is,  amongst  the  humblest,  a  gaiety,  cheerfulness, 
politeness,  and  sobriety,  to  which  in  England,  no  class  can 
show  a  parallel :  and  these,  be  it  remembered,  are  not  only 
qualities  for  holidays,  but  for  working-days  too,  and  add 
to  the  enjoyment  of  human  life  as  much  as  good  clothes, 
good  beef,  or  good  wages.  If,  to  our  freedom,  we  could 
but  add  a  little  of  their  happiness!— it  is  one,  after  all, 
of  the  cheapest  commodities  in  the  world,  and  in  the 
power  of  every  man  (with  means  of  gaining  decent 
bread)  who  has  the  will  or  the  skill  to  use  it. 

We  are  not  going  to  trace  the  history  of  the  rise  and 
progress  of  art  in  France;  our  business,  at  present,  is 
only  to  speak  of  one  branch  of  art  in  that  country— litho- 
graphic designs,  and  those  chiefly  of  a  humorous  char- 
acter. A  history  of  French  caricature  was  published  in 
Paris,  two  or  three  years  back,  illustrated  by  numerous 
copies  of  designs,  from  the  time  of  Henry  III.  to  our 


222  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

own  day.  We  can  only  speak  of  this  work  from  memory, 
having  been  miable,  in  London,  to  procure  the  sight  of  a 
copy;  but  our  impression,  at  the  time  we  saw  the  col- 
lection, was  as  unfavourable  as  could  possibly  be :  nothing 
could  be  more  meagre  than  the  wit,  or  poorer  than  the 
execution,  of  the  whole  set  of  drawings.  Under  the 
Empire,  art,  as  may  be  imagined,  was  at  a  very  low 
ebb ;  and,  aping  the  Government  of  the  day,  and  catering 
to  the  national  taste  and  vanity,  it  was  a  kind  of  tawdry 
caricature  of  the  sublime ;  of  which  the  pictures  of  David 
and  Girodet,  and  almost  the  entire  collection  now  at  the 
Luxembourg  Palace,  will  give  pretty  fair  examples. 
Swollen,  distorted,  unnatural,  the  painting  was  some- 
thing like  the  politics  of  those  days;  with  force  in  it, 
nevertheless,  and  something  of  grandeur,  that  will  exist 
in  spite  of  taste,  and  is  born  of  energetic  will.  A  man, 
disposed  to  write  comparisons  of  characters,  might,  for 
instance,  find  some  striking  analogies  between  Mounte- 
bank Murat,  with  his  irresistible  bravery  and  horseman- 
ship, who  was  a  kind  of  mixture  of  Duguesclin  and 
Ducrow,  and  JVIountebank  David,  a  fierce,  powerful 
painter  and  genius,  whose  idea  of  beauty  and  sublimity 
seemed  to  have  been  gained  from  the  bloody  melodramas 
on  the  Boulevard.  Both,  however,  were  great  in  their 
way,  and  were  worshipped  as  gods,  in  those  heathen 
times  of  false  belief  and  hero-worship. 

As  for  poor  caricature  and  freedom  of  the  press,  they, 
like  the  rightful  princess  in  a  fairy  tale,  with  the  merry 
fantastic  dwarf,  her  attendant,  were  entirely  in  the  power 
of  the  giant  who  ruled  the  land.  The  Princess  Press  was 
so  closely  watched  and  guarded  (with  some  little  show, 
nevertheless,  of  respect  for  her  rank) ,  that  she  dared  not 
utter  a  word  of  her  own  thoughts ;  and,  for  poor  Carica- 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY    223 

ture,  he  was  gagged,  and  put  out  of  the  way  altogether : 
imprisoned  as  completely  as  ever  Asmodeus  was  in  his 
phial. 

How  the  Press  and  her  attendant  fared  in  succeeding 
reigns,  is  well  known;  their  condition  was  little  bettered 
by  the  downfall  of  Napoleon;  with  the  accession  of 
Charles  X.  they  were  more  oppressed  even  than  before 
— more  than  they  could  bear;  for  so  hard  were  they 
pressed,  that,  as  one  has  seen  when  sailors  are  working 
a  capstan,  back  of  a  sudden  the  bars  flew,  knocking  to  the 
earth  the  men  who  were  endeavouring  to  work  them. 
The  Revolution  came,  and  up  sprung  Caricature  in 
France;  all  sorts  of  fierce  epigrams  were  discharged  at 
the  flying  monarch,  and  speedily  were  prepared,  too, 
for  the  new  one. 

About  this  time  there  lived  at  Paris  (if  our  informa- 
tion be  correct)  a  certain  M.  Philipon,  an  indiflPerent 
artist  (painting  was  his  profession) ,  a  tolerable  designer, 
and  an  admirable  wit.  M.  Philipon  designed  many  cari- 
catures himself,  married  the  sister  of  an  eminent  pub- 
lisher of  prints  (M.  Aubert),  and  the  two,  gathering 
about  them  a  body  of  wits  and  artists  like  themselves, 
set  up  journals  of  their  own:— La  Caricature,  first  pub- 
lished once  a  week;  and  the  Charivari  afterwards,  a  daily 
paper,  in  which  a  design  also  appears  daily. 

At  first  the  caricatures  inserted  in  the  Charivari  were 
chiefly  political ;  and  a  most  curious  contest  speedily  com- 
menced between  the  State  and  M.  Philipon's  little  army 
in  the  Galerie  Vero-Dodat.  Half-a-dozen  poor  artists 
on  the  one  side,  and  his  Majesty  Louis  Philippe,  his  au- 
gust family,  and  the  numberless  placemen  and  support- 
ers of  the  monarchy,  on  the  other ;  it  was  something  like 
Thersites  girding  at  Ajax,and  piercing  through  the  folds 


224  THE    PARIS    SKETCH    BOOK 

of  the  clypei  septemplicis  with  the  poisonous  shafts  of  his 
scorn.  Our  French  Thersites  was  not  always  an  honest 
opponent,  it  must  be  confessed ;  and  many  an  attack  was 
made  upon  the  gigantic  enemy,  which  was  cowardly, 
false,  and  malignant.  But  to  see  the  monster  writhing 
under  the  effects  of  the  arrow — to  see  his  uncouth  fury 
in  return,  and  the  blind  blows  that  he  dealt  at  his  diminu- 
tive opponent! — not  one  of  these  told  in  a  hundred; 
when  they  did  tell,  it  may  be  imagined  that  they  were 
fierce  enough  in  all  conscience,  and  served  almost  to 
annihilate  the  adversary. 

To  speak  more  plainly,  and  to  drop  the  metaphor  of 
giant  and  dwarf,  the  King  of  the  French  suffered  so 
much,  his  JNIinisters  were  so  mercilessly  ridiculed,  his 
family  and  his  own  remarkable  figure  drawn  with  such 
odious  and  grotesque  resemblance,  in  fanciful  attitudes, 
circumstances,  and  disguises,  so  ludicrously  mean,  and 
often  so  appropriate,  that  the  King  was  obliged  to  de- 
scend into  the  lists  and  battle  his  ridiculous  enemy  in 
form.  Prosecutions,  seizures,  fines,  regiments  of  furious 
legal  officials,  were  first  brought  into  play  against  poor 
M.  Phillpon  and  his  little  dauntless  troop  of  malicious 
artists;  some  few  were  bribed  out  of  his  ranks;  and  if 
they  did  not,  like  Gilray  in  England,  turn  their  weapons 
upon  their  old  friends,  at  least  laid  down  their  arms,  and 
would  fight  no  more.  The  bribes,  fines,  indictments,  and 
loud-tongued  avocats  du  Roi  made  no  impression; 
Phillpon  repaired  the  defeat  of  a  fine  by  some  fresh  and 
furious  attack  upon  his  great  enemy;  if  his  epigrams 
were  more  covert,  they  were  no  less  bitter;  if  he  was 
beaten  a  dozen  times  before  a  jury,  he  had  eighty  or 
ninety  victories  to  show  in  the  same  field  of  battle,  and 
every  victory  and  every  defeat  brought  him  new  sym- 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY    225 

pathy.  Every  one  who  was  at  Paris  a  few  years  since 
must  recollect  the  famous  "poire  "  which  was  chalked 
upon  all  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  which  bore  so  ludicrous 
a  resemblance  to  Louis  Philippe.  The  i)oire  became  an 
object  of  prosecution,  and  ]M.  Philipon  appeared  before 
a  jury  to  answer  for  the  crime  of  inciting  to  contempt 
against  the  King's  person,  by  giving  such  a  ludicrous 
version  of  his  face.  Philipon,  for  defence,  produced  a 
sheet  of  paper,  and  drew  a  poire,  a  real  large  Burgundy 
pear:  in  the  lower  parts  round  and  capacious,  narrower 
near  the  stalk,  and  crowned  with  two  or  three  careless 
leaves.  "  There  was  no  treason  at  least  in  that"  he  said 
to  the  jury;  "  could  any  one  object  to  such  a  harmless 
botanical  representation?  "  Then  he  drew  a  second  pear, 
exactly  like  the  former,  except  that  one  or  two  lines  were 
scrawled  in  the  midst  of  it,  which  bore  somehow  a  ludi- 
crous resemblance  to  the  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  of  a  cele- 
brated personage ;  and,  lastly,  he  drew  the  exact  portrait 
of  Louis  Philippe;  the  well-known  toupet,  the  ample 
whiskers  and  jowl  were  there,  neither  extenuated  nor  set 
down  in  malice.  "  Can  I  help  it,  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
then,"  said  he,  "  if  his  Majesty's  face  is  like  a  pear? 
Say  yourselves,  respectable  citizens,  is  it,  or  is  it  not, 
like  a  pear?  "  Such  eloquence  could  not  fail  of  its 
effect;  the  artist  was  acquitted,  and  La  Poire  is  im- 
mortal. 

At  last  came  the  famous  September  laws :  the  freedom 
of  the  Press,  which,  from  August,  1830,  was  to  be 
"  desormais  une  verite,"  was  calmly  strangled  by  the 
Monarch  who  had  gained  his  crown  for  his  supposed 
championship  of  it;  by  his  Ministers,  some  of  whom 
had  been  stout  Republicans  on  paper  but  a  few  years 
before;  and  by  the  Chamber,  which,  such  is  the  blessed 


226  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

constitution  of  French  elections,  will  generally  vote,  un- 
vote, revote  in  any  way  the  Government  wishes.  With 
a  wondrous  union,  and  happy  forgetfulness  of  princi- 
ple, monarch,  ministers,  and  deputies  issued  the  restric- 
tion laws ;  the  Press  was  sent  to  prison ;  as  for  the  poor 
dear  Caricature,  it  was  fairly  murdered.  No  more  polit- 
ical satires  appear  now,  and  "  through  the  eye,  correct 
the  heart ;  "  no  more  poire s  ripen  on  the  walls  of  the 
metropolis;  Philipon's  political  occupation  is  gone. 

But  there  is  always  food  for  satire;  and  the  French 
caricaturists,  being  no  longer  allowed  to  hold  up  to  ridi- 
cule and  reprobation  the  King  and  the  deputies,  have 
found  no  lack  of  subjects  for  the  pencil  in  the  ridicules 
and  rascalities  of  common  life.  We  have  said  that  public 
decency  is  greater  amongst  the  French  than  amongst  us, 
which,  to  some  of  our  readers,  may  appear  paradoxical; 
but  we  shall  not  attempt  to  argue  that,  in  private 
roguery,  our  neighbours  are  not  our  equals.  The  proces 
of  Gisquet,  which  has  appeared  lately  in  the  papers, 
shows  how  deep  the  demoralization  must  be,  and  how  a 
Government,  based  itself  on  dishonesty  ( a  tyranny,  that 
is,  under  the  title  and  fiction  of  a  democracy,)  must 
practise  and  admit  corruption  in  its  own  and  in  its  agents' 
dealings  with  the  nation.  Accordingly,  of  cheating  con- 
tracts, of  ministers  dabbling  with  the  funds,  or  extract- 
ing underhand  profits  for  the  granting  of  unjust 
privileges  and  monopolies, — of  grasping,  envious  police 
restrictions,  which  destroy  the  freedom,  and,  with  it,  the 
integrity  of  commerce, — those  who  like  to  examine  such 
details  may  find  plenty  in  French  history:  the  whole 
French  finance  system  has  been  a  swindle  from  the  days 
of  Luvois,  or  Law,  down  to  the  present  time.  The 
Government  swindles  the  public,  and  the  small  traders 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY    227 

swindle  their  customers,  on  the  authority  and  example 
of  the  superior  powers.  Hence  the  art  of  roguery,  under 
such  high  patronage,  maintains  in  France  a  noble  front 
of  impudence,  and  a  fine  audacious  openness,  which  it 
does  not  wear  in  our  country. 

Among  the  various  characters  of  roguery  which  the 
French  satirists  have  amused  themselves  by  depicting, 
there  is  one  of  which  the  greatness  (using  the  word  in 
the  sense  which  JNIr.  Jonathan  Wild  gave  to  it)  so  far 
exceeds  that  of  all  others,  embracing,  as  it  does,  all 
in  turn,  that  it  has  come  to  be  considered  the  type  of 
roguery  in  general;  and  now,  just  as  all  the  political 
squibs  were  made  to  come  of  old  from  the  lips  of  Pas- 
quin,  all  the  reflections  on  the  prevailing  cant,  knavery, 
quackery,  humbug,  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  JMonsieur 
Robert  jNIacaire. 

A  play  was  written,  some  twenty  years  since,  called 
the  "  Auberge  des  Adrets,"  in  which  the  characters  of 
two  robbers  escaped  from  the  galleys  were  introduced 
— Robert  Macaire,  the  clever  rogue  above  mentioned, 
and  Bertrand,  the  stupid  rogue,  his  friend,  accomplice, 
butt,  and  scapegoat,  on  all  occasions  of  danger.  It  is 
needless  to  describe  the  play— a  witless  performance 
enough,  of  which  the  joke  was  JNIacaire's  exaggerated 
style  of  conversation,  a  farrago  of  all  sorts  of  high-flown 
sentiments  such  as  the  French  love  to  indulge  in— con- 
trasted with  his  actions,  which  were  philosophically  un- 
scrupulous, and  his  appearance,  which  was  most  pictur- 
esquely sordid.  The  play  had  been  acted,  we  believe,  and 
forgotten,  when  a  very  clever  actor,  M.  Frederick  Lemai- 
tre,  took  upon  himself  the  performance  of  tlie  character 
of  Robert  JNIacaire,  and  looked,  spoke,  and  acted  it  to  such 
admirable  perfection,  that  the  whole  town  rung  with 


228  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

applauses  of  the  performance,  and  the  caricaturists  de- 
hghted  to  copy  his  singular  figure  and  costume.  M. 
Robert  Macaire  appears  in  a  most  picturesque  green 
coat,  with  a  variety  of  rents  and  patches,  a  pair  of  crim- 
son pantaloons  ornamented  in  the  same  way,  enormous 
whiskers  and  ringlets,  an  enormous  stock  and  shirt-frill, 
as  dirty  and  ragged  as  stock  and  shirt-frill  can  be,  the 
relic  of  a  hat  very  gaily  cocked  over  one  eye,  and  a  patch 
to  take  away  somewhat  from  the  brightness  of  the  other 
— these  are  the  principal  pieces  of  his  costume — a  snuff- 
box like  a  creaking  warming-pan,  a  handkerchief  hang- 
ing together  by  a  miracle,  and  a  switch  of  about  the 
thickness  of  a  man's  thigh,  formed  the  ornaments  of  this 
exquisite  personage.  He  is  a  compound  of  Fielding's 
"  Blueskin  "  and  Goldsmith's  "  Beau  Tibbs."  He  has 
the  dirt  and  dandyism  of  the  one,  with  the  ferocity  of  the 
other:  sometimes  he  is  made  to  swindle,  but  where  he 
can  get  a  shilling  more,  M.  Macaire  will  murder  without 
scruple:  he  performs  one  and  the  other  act  (or  any  in  the 
scale  between  them)  with  a  similar  bland  imperturbabil- 
ity, and  accompanies  his  actions  with  such  philosophical 
remarks  as  may  be  expected  from  a  person  of  his  talents, 
his  energies,  his  amiable  life  and  character. 

Bertrand  is  the  simple  recipient  of  Macaire's  jokes, 
and  makes  vicarious  atonement  for  his  crimes,  acting, 
in  fact,  the  part  which  pantaloon  performs  in  the  pan- 
tomime, who  is  entirely  under  the  fatal  influence  of 
clown.  He  is  quite  as  much  a  rogue  as  that  gentleman, 
but  he  has  not  his  genius  and  courage.  So,  in  panto- 
mimes, (it  may,  doubtless,  have  been  remarked  by  the 
reader,)  clown  always  leaps  first,  pantaloon  following 
after,  more  clumsily  and  timidly  than  his  bold  and  ac- 
complished friend  and  guide.    Whatever  blows  are  des- 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY     229 

tined  for  clown,  fall,  by  some  means  of  ill-luck,  upon  the 
pate  of  pantaloon:  whenever  the  clown  robs,  the  stolen 
articles  are  sure  to  be  found  in  his  companion's  pocket; 
and  thus  exactly  Robert  JNIacaire  and  his  companion 
Bertrand  are  made  to  go  through  the  world ;  both  swin- 
dlers, but  the  one  more  accomplished  than  the  other. 
Both  robbing  all  the  world,  and  Robert  robbing  his 
friend,  and,  in  the  event  of  danger,  leaving  him  faith- 
fully in  the  lurch.  There  is,  in  the  two  characters,  some 
grotesque  good  for  the  spectator — a  kind  of  "  Beggars' 
Opera  "  moral. 

Ever  since  Robert,  with  his  dandified  rags  and  airs, 
his  cane  and  snufF-box,  and  Bertrand  with  torn  surtout 
and  all-absorbing  pocket,  have  appeared  on  the  stage, 
they  have  been  popular  with  the  Parisians;  and  with 
these  two  types  of  clever  and  stupid  knavery,  ]M.  Phili- 
pon  and  his  companion  Daumier  have  created  a  world  of 
pleasant  satire  upon  all  the  prevailing  abuses  of  the 
day. 

Almost  the  first  figure  that  these  audacious  caricatur- 
ists dared  to  depict  was  a  political  one:  in  INIacaire's 
red  breeches  and  tattered  coat  appeared  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  the  King  himself —the  old  Poire— in  a  coun- 
try of  humbugs  and  swindlers  the  facile  prince ps;  fit  to 
govern,  as  he  is  deeper  than  all  the  rogues  in  his  domin- 
ions. Bertrand  was  opposite  to  him,  and  having  listened 
with  delight  and  reverence  to  some  tale  of  knavery  truly 
royal,  was  exclaiming,  with  a  look  and  voice  expressive 
of  the  most  intense  admiration,  "  Ah  vieux  blagueur! 
va!"— the  word  blague  is  untranslatable— it  means 
French  humbug  as  distinct  from  all  other;  and  only  those 
who  know  the  value  of  an  epigram  in  France,  an  epi- 
gram so  wonderfully  just,  a  little  word  so  curiously 


230  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

comprehensive,  can  fancy  the  kind  of  rage  and  rapture 
with  which  it  was  received.  It  was  a  blow  that  shook 
the  whole  dynasty.  Thersites  had  there  given  such  a 
wound  to  Ajax,  as  Hector  in  arms  could  scarcely  have 
inflicted:  a  blow  sufficient  almost  to  create  the  madness 
to  which  the  fabulous  hero  of  Homer  and  Ovid  fell  a 
prey. 

Not  long,  however,  was  French  caricature  allowed  to 
attack  personages  so  illustrious:  the  September  laws 
came,  and  henceforth  no  more  epigrams  were  launched 
against  jDolitics;  but  the  caricaturists  were  compelled  to 
confine  their  satire  to  subjects  and  characters  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  State.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  was 
no  longer  to  figure  in  lithography  as  the  fantastic  Prince 
Rosolin;  no  longer  were  multitudes  (in  chalk)  to  shelter 
under  the  enormous  shadow  of  M.  d'Argout's  nose: 
Marshal  Lobau's  squirt  was  hung  up  in  peace,  and  M. 
Thiers'  pigmy  figure  and  round  spectacled  face  were  no 
more  to  appear  in  print.^  Robert  Macaire  was  driven 
out  of  the  Chambers  and  the  Palace— his  remarks  were 
a  great  deal  too  appropriate  and  too  severe  for  the  ears 
of  the  great  men  who  congregated  in  those  places. 

The  Chambers  and  the  Palace  were  shut  to  him;  but 
the  rogue,  driven  out  of  his  rogue's  paradise,  saw  "  that 
the  world  was  all  before  him  where  to  choose,"  and  found 
no  lack  of  opportunities  for  exercising  his  wit.  There 
was  the  Bar,  with  its  roguisli  practitioners,  rascally  at- 
torneys, stupid  juries,  and  forsworn  judges;  there  was 
the  Bourse,  with  all  its  gambling,  swindling,  and  hoax- 
ing, its  cheats  and  its  dupes ;  the  Medical  Profession,  and 
the  quacks  who  ruled  it,  alternately;  the  Stage,  and  the 

^  Almost  all  the  principal  public  men  had  been  most  ludicrously  caricatured 
in  the  Charivari :  those  mentioned  above  were  usually  depicted  with  the  dis- 
tinctive attributes  mentioned  by  us. 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY     231 

cant  that  was  prevalent  there;  the   Fashion,  and  its 
thousand  foHies  and  extravagances.     Robert  Macaire 

^  had  all  these  to  exploiter.  Of  all  the  empire,  through 
all  the  ranks,  professions,  the  lies,  crimes,  and  absurdi- 
ties of  men,  he  may  make  sport  at  will;  of  all  except  of 
a  certain  class.  Like  Bluebeard's  wife,  he  may  see 
everything,  but  is  bidden  to  beware  of  the  blue  chamber. 
Robert  is  more  wise  than  Bluebeard's  wife,  and  knows 

f-  that  it  would  cost  him  his  head  to  enter  it.  Robert,  there- 
fore, keeps  aloof  for  the  moment.  Would  there  be  any 
use  in  his  martyrdom?  Bluebeard  cannot  live  for  ever; 
perhaps,  even  now,  those  are  on  their  way  (one  sees  a 
suspicious  cloud  of  dust  or  two)  that  are  to  destroy  him. 
In  the  meantime  Robert  and  his  friend  have  been  fur- 
nishing the  designs  that  we  have  before  us,  and  of  which 
perhaps  the  reader  will  be  edified  by  a  brief  description. 
We  are  not,  to  be  sure,  to  judge  of  the  French  nation 
by  M.  Macaire,  any  more  than  we  are  to  judge  of  our 
own  national  morals  in  the  last  century  by  such  a  book 
as  the  "  Beggars'  Opera;  "  but  upon  the  morals  and  the 
national  manners,  works  of  satire  afford  a  world  of  light 
that  one  would  in  vain  look  for  in  regular  books  of  his- 
tory. Doctor  Smollett  would  have  blushed  to  devote  any 
considerable  portion  of  his  pages  to  a  discussion  of  the 
acts  and  character  of  Mr.  Jonathan  Wild,  such  a  figure 
being  hardly  admissible  among  the  dignified  personages 
who  usually  push  all  others  out  from  the  possession  of 
the  historical  page;  but  a  chapter  of  that  gentleman's 
memoirs,  as  they  are  recorded  in  that  exemplary  recueil 
—the  "  Newgate  Calendar;  "  nay,  a  canto  of  the  great 
comic  epic  (involving  many  fables,  and  containing  much 
exaggeration,  but  still  having  the  seeds  of  truth)  which 
the  satirical  poet  of  those  days  wrote  in  celebration  of 


232  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

him — we  mean  Fielding's  "  History  of  Jonathan  Wild 
the  Great  " — does  seem  to  us  to  give  a  more  curious  pic- 
ture of  the  manners  of  those  times  than  any  recognized 
history  of  them.  At  the  close  of  his  history  of  George 
II.,  Smollett  condescends  to  give  a  short  chapter  on 
Literature  and  Manners.  He  speaks  of  Glover's  "  Le- 
onidas,"  Gibber's  "  Careless  Husband,"  the  poems  of 
Mason,  Gray,  the  two  Whiteheads,  "  the  nervous  style, 
extensive  erudition,  and  superior  sense  of  a  Corke;  the 
delicate  taste,  the  polished  muse  and  tender  feeling  of 
a  Lyttelton."  "  King,"  he  says,  "  shone  unrivalled  in 
Roman  eloquence,  the  female  sex  distinguished  them- 
selves by  their  taste  and  ingenuity.  Miss  Carter  rivalled 
the  celebrated  Dacier  in  learning  and  critical  knowledge ; 
Mrs.  Lennox  signalized  herself  by  many  successful  ef- 
forts of  genius  both  in  poetry  and  prose ;  and  Miss  Reid 
excelled  the  celebrated  Rosalba  in  portrait-painting, 
both  in  miniature  and  at  large,  in  oil  as  well  as  in  crayons. 
The  genius  of  Cervantes  was  transferred  into  the  novels 
of  Fielding,  who  painted  the  characters  and  ridiculed  the 
follies  of  life  with  equal  strength,  humour,  and  propri- 
ety. The  field  of  history  and  biography  was  cultivated 
by  many  writers  of  ability,  among  whom  we  distinguish 
the  copious  Guthrie,  the  circumstantial  Ralph,  the  la- 
borious Carte,  the  learned  and  elegant  Robertson,  and 
above  all,  the  ingenious,  penetrating,  and  comprehensive 
Hume,"  &c.  &c.  We  will  quote  no  more  of  the  passage. 
Could  a  man  in  the  best  humour  sit  down  to  write  a 
graver  satire  ?  Who  cares  for  the  tender  muse  of  Lyttel- 
ton? Who  knows  the  signal  efforts  of  Mrs.  Lennox's 
genius?  Who  has  seen  the  admirable  performances,  in 
miniature  and  at  large,  in  oil  as  well  as  in  crayons,  of 
Miss  Reid?    Laborious  Carte,  and  circumstantial  Ralph, 


CARICATURES    AND   LITHOGRAPHY     233 

and  copious  Guthrie,  where  are  they,  their  works,  and 
their  reputation?  Mrs.  Lennox's  name  is  just  as  clean 
wiped  out  of  the  hst  of  worthies  as  if  she  had  never 
been  born;  and  Miss  Reid,  though  she  was  once  actual 
flesh  and  blood,  "  rival  in  miniature  and  at  large  "  of 
the  celebrated  Rosalba,  she  is  as  if  she  had  never  been  at 
all ;  her  little  farthing  rushlight  of  a  soul  and  reputation 
having  burnt  out,  and  left  neither  wick  nor  tallow. 
Death,  too,  has  overtaken  copious  Guthrie  and  circum- 
stantial Ralph.  Only  a  few  know  whereabouts  is  the 
grave  where  lies  laborious  Carte;  and  yet,  O  wondrous 
power  of  genius!  Fielding's  men  and  women  are  alive, 
though  History's  are  not.  The  progenitors  of  circum- 
stantial Ralph  sent  forth,  after  much  labour  and  pains 
of  making,  educating,  feeding,  clothing,  a  real  man 
child,  a  great  palpable  mass  of  flesh,  bones,  and  blood 
(we  say  nothing  about  the  spirit),  which  was  to  move 
through  the  world,  ponderous,  writing  histories,  and  to 
die,  having  achieved  the  title  of  circumstantial  Ralph; 
and  lo!  without  any  of  the  trouble  that  the  parents  of 
Ralph  had  undergone,  alone  perhaps  in  a  watch  or  spung- 
ing-house,  fuddled  most  likely,  in  the  blandest,  easiest, 
and  most  good-humoured  way  in  the  world,  Henry 
Fielding  makes  a  number  of  men  and  women  on  so 
many  sheets  of  paper,  not  only  more  amusing  than 
Ralph  or  Miss  Reid,  but  more  like  flesh  and  blood, 
and  more  alive  now  than  they.  Is  not  Amelia  preparing 
her  husband's  little  supper?  Is  not  Miss  Snapp  chastely 
preventing  the  crime  of  Mr.  Firebrand  ?  Is  not  Parson 
Adams  in  the  midst  of  his  family,  and  Mr.  Wild  taking 
his  last  bowl  of  punch  with  the  Newgate  Ordinary?  Is 
not  every  one  of  them  a  real  substantial  have-heen  per- 
sonage now?— more  real  than  Reid  or  Ralph?    For  our 


234  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

parts,  we  will  not  take  upon  ourselves  to  say  that  they 
do  not  exist  somewhere  else :  that  the  actions  attributed  to 
them  have  not  really  taken  place ;  certain  we  are  that  they 
are  more  worthy  of  credence  than  Ralph,  who  may  or 
may  not  have  been  circumstantial;  who  may  or  may 
not  even  have  existed,  a  point  unworthy  of  disputation. 
As  for  Miss  Reid,  we  will  take  an  affidavit  that  neither 
in  miniature  nor  at  large  did  she  excel  the  celebrated 
Rosalba;  and  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Lennox,  we  consider 
her  to  be  a  mere  figment,  like  Narcissa,  Miss  Tabitha 
Bramble,  or  any  hero  or  heroine  depicted  by  the  historian 
of  "  Peregrine  Pickle." 

In  like  manner,  after  viewing  nearly  ninety  portraits 
of  Robert  Macaire  and  his  friend  Bertrand,  all  strongly 
resembling  each  other,  we  are  inclined  to  believe  in  them 
as  historical  personages,  and  to  canvass  gravely  the  cir- 
cumstances of  their  lives.  Why  should  we  not?  Have 
we  not  their  portraits?  Are  not  they  sufficient  proofs? 
If  not,  we  must  discredit  Napoleon  (as  Archbishop 
Whately  teaches),  for  about  his  figure  and  himself  we 
have  no  more  authentic  testimony. 

Let  the  reality  of  M.  Robert  JNIacaire  and  his  friend 
M.  Bertrand  be  granted,  if  but  to  gratify  our  own  fond- 
ness for  those  exquisite  characters:  we  find  the  worthy 
pair  in  the  French  capital,  mingling  with  all  grades  of 
its  society,  imrs  magna  in  the  intrigues,  pleasures,  per- 
plexities, rogueries,  speculations,  which  are  carried  on  in 
Paris,  as  in  our  own  chief  city;  for  it  need  not  be  said 
that  roguery  is  of  no  country  nor  clime,  but  finds  co?  Tua- 
vxayoO  ys  izaz^lc,  ri  (36a7,ouaa  y^jis  a  citizen  of  all  countries 
where  the  quarters  are  good;  among  our  merry  neigh- 
bours it  finds  itself  very  much  at  its  ease. 

Not  being  endowed,  then,  with  patrimonial  wealth, 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY    235 

but  compelled  to  exercise  their  genius  to  obtain  distinc- 
tion, or  even  subsistence,  we  see  JVIessrs.  Bertrand  and 
Macaire,  by  turns,  adopting  all  trades  and  professions, 
and  exercising  each  with  their  own  peculiar  ingenuity. 
As  public  men,  we  have  spoken  already  of  their  appear- 
ance in  one  or  two  important  characters,  and  stated 
that  the  Government  grew  fairly  jealous  of  them,  ex- 
cluding them  from  office,  as  the  Whigs  did  Lord  Brou- 
gham. As  private  individuals,  they  are  made  to  distin- 
guish themselves  as  the  founders  of  journals,  societes  en 
commandite  (companies  of  which  the  members  are  irre- 
sponsible beyond  the  amount  of  their  shares),  and  all 
sorts  of  commercial  speculations,  requiring  intelligence 
and  honesty  on  the  part  of  the  directors,  confidence  and 
liberal  disbursements  from  the  shareholders. 

These  are,  among  the  French,  so  numerous,  and  have 
been  of  late  years  (in  the  shape  of  Newspaper  Compa- 
nies, Bitumen  Companies,  Galvanized-Iron  Companies, 
Railroad  Companies,  &c.)  pursued  with  such  a  blind 
furor  and  lust  of  gain,  by  that  easily  excited  and  imagi- 
native people  that,  as  may  be  imagined,  the  satirist  has 
found  plenty  of  occasion  for  remark,  and  INI.  INIacaire 
and  his  friend  innumerable  opportunities  for  exercising 
their  talents. 

We  know  nothing  of  ]M.  Emile  de  Girardin,  except 
that,  in  a  duel,  he  shot  the  best  man  in  France,  Armand 
Carrel ;  and  in  Girardin's  favour  it  must  be  said,  that  he 
had  no  other  alternative ;  but  was  right  in  provoking  the 
duel,  seeing  that  the  whole  Republican  party  had  vowed 
his  destruction,  and  that  he  fought  and  killed  their  cham- 
pion, as  it  were.  We  know  nothing  of  INI.  Girardin's 
private  character;  but,  as  far  as  we  can  judge  from  the 
French  public  prints,  he  seems  to  be  the  most  speculative 


236         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

of  speculators,  and,  of  course,  a  fair  butt  for  the  malice  of 
the  caricaturists.  His  one  great  crime,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
French  Republicans  and  Republican  newspaper  propri- 
etors, was,  that  Girardin  set  up  a  journal,  as  he  called  it, 
"  franchement  monarcJiique/'—a  journal  in  the  pay  of 
the  monarchy,  that  is, — and  a  journal  that  cost  only  forty 
francs  by  the  year.  The  National  costs  twice  as  much; 
the  Charivari  itself  costs  half  as  much  again;  and  though 
all  newspapers,  of  all  parties,  concurred  in  "  snubbing  " 
poor  M.  Girardin  and  his  journal,  the  Republican  prints 
were  by  far  the  most  bitter  against  him,  thundering  daily 
accusations  and  personalities ;  whether  the  abuse  was  well 
or  ill  founded,  we  know  not.  Hence  arose  the  duel  with 
Carrel ;  after  the  termination  of  which,  Girardin  put  by 
his  pistol,  and  vowed,  very  properly,  to  assist  in  the  shed- 
ding of  no  more  blood.  Girardin  had  been  the  originator 
of  numerous  other  speculations  besides  the  journal:  the 
capital  of  these,  like  that  of  the  journal,  was  raised  by 
shares,  and  the  shareholders,  by  some  fatality,  have  found 
themselves  wofully  in  the  lurch;  while  Girardin  carries 
on  the  war  gaily,  is,  or  was,  a  member  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  has  money,  goes  to  Court,  and  possesses  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  reputation.  He  invented,  we  believe,  the  "  In- 
stitution Agronome  de  Coetbo,"  ^  the  "  Physionotype," 
the  "  Journal  des  Connoissances  Utiles,"  the  "  Pantheon 
Litteraire,"  and  the  system  of  "  Primes  " — premiums, 
that  is — to  be  given,  by  lottery,  to  certain  subscribers  in 
these  institutions.  Could  Robert  Macaire  see  such  things 
going  on,  and  have  no  hand  in  them? 

Accordingly  Messrs.  Macaire  and  Bertrand  are  made 
the  heroes  of  many  speculations  of  the  kind.  In  almost 
the  first  print  of  our  collection,  Robert  discourses  to  Ber- 

^  It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  descriptions  of  these  various  inventions. 


CARICATURES   AND    LITHOGRAPHY    237 

trand  of  his  projects.  "  Bertrand,"  says  the  disinterested 
admirer  of  talent  and  enterprise,  "  j 'adore  Tindustrie. 
Si  tu  veux  nous  creons  une  banque,  mais  la,  une  vraie 
banque:  capital  cent  millions  de  millions,  cent  milliards 
de  milliards  d'actions.  Nous  enfon9ons  la  banque  de 
France,  les  banquiers,  les  banquistes;  nous  enf onions 
tout  le  monde."  "  Oui,"  says  Bertrand,  very  calm  and 
stupid,  "  mais  les  gendarmes?  "  "  Que  tu  es  bete,  Ber- 
trand: est-ce  qu'on  arrete  un  millionnaire?  "  Such  is  the 
key  to  M.  Macaire's  philosophy ;  and  a  wise  creed  too,  as 
times  go. 

Acting  on  these  principles,  Robert  appears  soon  after ; 
he  hajs  not  created  a  bank,  but  a  journal.  He  sits  in  a 
chair  of  state,  and  discourses  to  a  shareholder.  Bertrand, 
calm  and  stupid  as  before,  stands  humbly  behind.  "  Sir," 
says  the  editor  of  La  Blague,  journal  quotidienne,  "  our 
profits  arise  from  a  new  combination.  The  journal  costs 
twenty  francs;  we  sell  it  for  twenty-three  and  a  half. 
A  million  subscribers  make  three  millions  and  a  half  of 
profits;  there  are  my  figures;  contradict  me  by  figures, 
or  I  will  bring  an  action  for  libel."  The  reader  may 
fancy  the  scene  takes  place  in  England,  where  many  such 
a  swindling  prospectus  has  obtained  credit  ere  now.  At 
Plate  33,  Robert  is  still  a  journalist;  he  brings  to  the 
editor  of  a  paper  an  article  of  his  composition,  a  violent 
attack  on  a  law.  "  My  dear  M.  Macaire,"  says  the  editor, 
"  this  must  be  changed ;  we  must  praise  this  law."  "  Bon, 
bon !  "  says  our  versatile  Macaire.  "  Je  vais  retoucher  9a, 
et  je  vous  fais  en  faveur  de  la  loi  un  article  mousseux" 

Can  such  things  be?  Is  it  possible  that  French  jour- 
nalists can  so  forget  themselves?  The  rogues!  they  should 
come  to  England  and  learn  consistency.  The  honesty  of 
the  Press  in  England  is  like  the  air  we  breathe,  without  it 


238  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

we  die.  No,  no !  in  France,  the  satire  may  do  very  well ; 
but  for  England  it  is  too  monstrous.  Call  the  press 
stupid,  call  it  vulgar,  call  it  violent, — but  honest  it  is. 
Who  ever  heard  of  a  journal  changing  its  politics?  O 
temporal  O  mores!  as  Robert  Macaire  says,  this  would 
be  carrying  the  joke  too  far. 

When  he  has  done  with  newspapers,  Robert  Macaire 
begins  to  distinguish  himself  on  'Change,^  as  a  creator  of 
companies,  a  vendor  of  shares,  or  a  dabbler  in  foreign 
stock.  "Buy  my  coal-mine  shares,"  shouts  Robert; 
"  gold  mines,  silver  mines,  diamond  mines,  '  sont  de  la 
pot-bouille  de  la  ratatouille  en  comparaison  de  ma 
houille.'  "  "  Look,"  says  he,  on  another  occasion,  to  a 
very  timid,  open-countenanced  client,  "  you  have  a  prop- 
erty to  sell !  I  have  found  the  very  man,  a  rich  capitalist, 
a  fellow  whose  bills  are  better  than  bank-notes."  His 
client  sells ;  the  bills  are  taken  in  payment,  and  signed  by 
that  respectable  capitalist.  Monsieur  de  Saint  Bertrand. 
At  Plate  81,  we  find  him  inditing  a  circular  letter  to 
all  the  world,  running  thus:—*'  Sir,— I  regret  to  say  that 
your  application  for  shares  in  the  Consolidated  European 
Incombustible  Blacking  Association  cannot  be  complied 
with,  as  all  the  shares  of  the  C.  E.  I.  B.  A.  were  disposed 
of  on  the  day  they  were  issued.  I  have,  nevertheless, 
registered  your  name,  and  in  case  a  second  series  should 
be  put  forth,  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  immediately  giv- 
ing you  notice.  I  am,  sir,  yours,  &c.,  the  Director,  Robert 
Macaire."—"  Print  300,000  of  these,"  he  says  to  Ber- 
trand, "  and  poison  all  France  with  them."  As  usual, 
the  stupid  Bertrand  remonstrates — "  But  we  have  not 
sold  a  single  share ;  you  have  not  a  penny  in  your  pocket, 
and  "— "  Bertrand,  you  are  an  ass;  do  as  I  bid  you." 

^  We  have  given  a  description  of  a  jyenteel  Macaire  in 
the  account  of  M.  de  Bernard's  novels. 


CARICATURES   AND    LITHOGRAPHY    239 

Will  this  satire  apply  anywhere  in  England?  Have 
we  any  Consolidated  European  Blacking  Associations 
amongst  us?  Have  we  penniless  directors  issuing  El 
Dorado  prospectuses,  and  jockeying  their  shares  through 
the  market  ?  For  information  on  this  head,  we  must  re- 
fer the  reader  to  the  newspapers;  or  if  he  be  connected 
with  the  city,  and  acquainted  w^ith  commercial  men,  he 
will  be  able  to  say  whether  all  the  persons  whose  names 
figure  at  the  head  of  announcements  of  projected  com- 
panies are  as  rich  as  Rothschild,  or  quite  as  honest  as 
heart  could  desire. 

When  Macaire  has  sufficiently  eocploite  the  Bourse, 
whether  as  a  gambler  in  the  public  funds  or  other  com- 
panies, he  sagely  perceives  that  it  is  time  to  turn  to  some 
other  profession,  and,  providing  himself  with  a  black 
gown,  proposes  blandly  to  Bertrand  to  set  up— a  new 
religion.  "  Mon  ami,"  says  the  repentant  sinner,  "  le 
temps  de  la  commandite  va  passer,  7nais  les  hadauds  ne 
passeront  pas."  (O  rare  sentence!  it  should  be  written 
in  letters  of  gold ! )  "  Occupons  nous  de  ce  qui  est  eter- 
nel.  Si  nous  fassions  une  religion?  "  On  which  M.  Ber- 
trand remarks,  "  A  religion!  what  the  devil — a  religion 
is  not  an  easy  thing  to  make."  But  INIacaire's  receipt  is 
easy.  "  Get  a  gown,  take  a  shop,"  he  says,  "  borrow 
some  chairs,  preach  about  Napoleon,  or  the  discovery 
of  America,  or  INIoliere — and  there's  a  religion  for 
you." 

We  have  quoted  this  sentence  more  for  the  contrast  it 
offers  with  our  own  manners,  than  for  its  merits.  After 
the  noble  paragraph,  "  Les  badauds  ne  passeront  pas. 
Occupons  nous  de  ce  qui  est  eternel,"  one  would  have 
expected  better  satire  upon  cant  than  the  words  that 
follow.  We  are  not  in  a  condition  to  say  whether  the 
subjects  chosen  are  those  that  had  been  selected  by  Pere 


240         THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

Enfantin,  or  Chatel,  or  Lacordaire;  but  the  words  are 
curious,  we  think,  for  the  very  reason  that  the  satire  is  so 
poor.  The  fact  is,  there  is  no  reHgion  in  Paris;  even 
clever  M.  Phihpon,  who  satirizes  everything,  and  must 
know,  therefore,  some  Httle  about  the  subject  which  he 
ridicules,  has  nothing  to  say  but,  "  Preach  a  sermon,  and 
that  makes  a  religion;  anything  will  do."  If  anything 
will  do,  it  is  clear  that  the  religious  commodity  is  not  in 
much  demand.  TartufFe  had  better  things  to  say  about 
hypocrisy  in  his  time;  but  then  Faith  was  alive;  now, 
there  is  no  satirizing  religious  cant  in  France,  for  its  con- 
trary, true  religion,  has  disappeared  altogether ;  and  hav- 
ing no  substance,  can  cast  no  shadow.  If  a  satirist  would 
lash  the  religious  hypocrites  in  England  now — the  High 
Church  hypocrites,  the  Low  Church  hypocrites,  the  pro- 
miscuous Dissenting  hypocrites,  the  No  Popery  hypo- 
crites— he  would  have  ample  subject  enough.  In  France, 
the  religious  hypocrites  went  out  with  the  Bourbons. 
Those  who  remain  pious  in  that  country  (or,  rather,  we 
should  say,  in  the  capital,  for  of  that  we  speak,)  are  un- 
affectedly so,  for  they  have  no  worldly  benefit  to  hope 
for  from  their  piety;  the  great  majority  have  no  religion 
at  all,  and  do  not  scoff  at  the  few,  for  scoffing  is  the  mi- 
nority's weapon,  and  is  passed  always  to  the  weaker 
side,  whatever  that  may  be.  Thus  H.  B.  caricatures 
the  Ministers :  if  by  any  accident  that  body  of  men  should 
be  dismissed  from  their  situations,  and  be  succeeded  by 
H.  B.'s  friends,  the  Tories, — what  must  the  poor  artist 
do?  He  must  pine  away  and  die,  if  he  be  not  converted; 
he  cannot  always  be  paying  compliments;  for  carica- 
ture has  a  spice  of  Goethe's  Devil  in  it,  and  is  "der 
Geist  der  stets  verneint,"  the  Spirit  that  is  always 
denying. 


CARICATURES   AND    LITHOGRAPHY    241 

With  one  or  two  of  the  French  writers  and  painters  of 
caricatures,  the  King  tried  the  experiment  of  bribery; 
which  succeeded  occasionally  in  buying  off  the  enemy, 
and  bringing  him  from  the  republican  to  the  royal  camp ; 
but  when  there,  the  deserter  was  never  of  any  use.  Fi- 
garo, when  so  treated,  grew  fat  and  desponding,  and  lost 
all  his  sprightly  verve;  and  Nemesis  became  as  gentle 
as  a  Quakeress.  But  these  instances  of  "  ratting  "  were 
not  many.  Some  few  poets  were  bought  over;  but, 
among  men  following  the  profession  of  the  press,  a 
change  of  politics  is  an  infringement  of  the  point  of 
honour,  and  a  man  must  fight  as  well  as  apostatize. 
A  very  curious  table  might  be  made,  signalizing  the  dif- 
ference of  the  moral  standard  betw-een  us  and  the 
French.  Why  is  the  grossness  and  indelicacy,  publicly 
permitted  in  England,  unknown  in  France,  where  pri- 
vate morality  is  certainly  at  a  lower  ebb?  Why  is  the 
point  of  private  honour  now  more  rigidly  maintained 
among  the  French  ?  Why  is  it,  as  it  should  be,  a  moral 
disgrace  for  a  Frenchman  to  go  into  debt,  and  no  dis- 
grace for  him  to  cheat  his  customer?  Why  is  there  more 
honesty  and  less— more  propriety  and  less?— and  how  are 
we  to  account  for  the  particular  vices  or  virtues  which 
belong  to  each  nation  in  its  turn? 

The  above  is  the  Reverend  M.  Macaire's  solitary  ex- 
ploit as  a  spiritual  swindler:  as  Maitre  INIacaire  in  the 
courts  of  law,  as  avocat,  avoue—'m.  a  humbler  capacity 
even,  as  a  prisoner  at  the  bar,  he  distinguishes  himself 
greatly,  as  may  be  imagined.  On  one  occasion  we  find 
the  learned  gentleman  humanely  visiting  an  unfortunate 
detenu— wo  other  person,  in  fact,  than  his  friend  ^I. 
Bertrand,  who  has  fallen  into  some  trouble,  and  is  await- 
ing the  sentence  of  the  law.    He  begins— 


242  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

"  Mon  cher  Bertrand,  donne  moi  cent  ecus,  je  te  fais 
acquitter  d'emblee." 

"  J'ai  pas  d'argent." 

"  He  bien,  donne  moi  cent  francs." 

"  Pas  le  sou." 

"  Tu  n'as  pas  dix  francs?  " 

"  Pas  un  Hard." 

"  Alors  donne  moi  tes  bottes,  je  plaiderai  la  circon- • 
stance  attenuante." 

The  manner  in  which  Maitre  Macaire  soars  from  the 
cent  ecus  (a  high  point  ah*eady)  to  the  subhme  of  the 
boots,  is  in  the  best  comic  style.  In  another  instance  he 
pleads  before  a  judge,  and,  mistaking  his  client,  pleads 
for  defendant,  instead  of  plaintiff.  "  The  infamy  of 
the  plaintiff's  character,  my  luds^  renders  his  testi- 
mony on  such  a  charge  as  this  wholly  unavailing."  "  M. 
Macaire,  M.  Macaire,"  cries  the  attorney,  in  a  fright, 
"  you  are  for  the  plaintiff!  "  "  This,  my  lords,  is  what 
the  defendant  will  say.  This  is  the  line  of  defence  which 
the  opposite  party  intend  to  pursue;  as  if  slanders  like 
these  could  weigh  with  an  enlightened  jury,  or  injure 
the  spotless  reputation  of  my  client !  "  In  this  story  and 
expedient  M.  JNIacaire  has  been  indebted  to  the  English 
bar.  If  there  be  an  occupation  for  the  English  satirist 
in  the  exposing  of  the  cant  and  knavery  of  the  pretenders 
to  religion,  what  room  is  there  for  him  to  lash  the  in- 
famies of  the  law !  On  this  point  the  French  are  babes  in 
iniquity  compared  to  us— a  counsel  prostituting  himself 
for  money  is  a  matter  with  us  so  stale,  that  it  is  hardly 
food  for  satire:  which,  to  be  popular,  must  find  some 
much  more  complicated  and  interesting  knavery  whereon 
to  exercise  its  skill. 

M.  Macaire  is  more  skilful  in  love  than  in  law,  and  ap- 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY    243 

pears  once  or  twice  in  a  very  amiable  light  while  under 
the  influence  of  the  tender  passion.  We  find  him  at  the 
head  of  one  of  those  useful  establishments  unknown  in 
our  country — a  Bureau  de  INIariage:  half  a  dozen  of  such 
places  are  daily  advertised  in  the  journals:  and  "  une 
veuve  de  trente  ans  ayant  une  fortune  de  deux  cent 
mille  francs,"  or  "  une  demoiselle  de  quinze  ans,  jolie, 
d'une  famille  tres  distinguee,  qui  possede  trente  mille 
livres  de  rentes," — continually,  in  this  kind-hearted  way, 
are  offering  themselves  to  the  public:  sometimes  it  is  a 
gentleman,  with  a  "  physique  agreable, — des  talens  de 
societe  " — and  a  place  under  Government,  who  makes  a 
sacrifice  of  himself  in  a  similar  manner.  In  our  little 
historical  gallery  we  find  this  philanthropic  anti-INIal- 
thusian  at  the  head  of  an  establishment  of  this  kind,  in- 
troducing a  very  meek,  simple-looking  bachelor  to  some 
distinguished  ladies  of  his  comioissance.  "  Let  me  pre- 
sent you,  sir,  to  Madame  de  St.  Bertrand  "  (it  is  our  old 
friend),  "  veuve  de  la  grande  armee,  et  jSIdlle.  Eloa  de 
Wormspire.  Ces  dames  bmlent  de  I'envie  de  faire  votre 
connoissance.  Je  les  ai  invitees  a  diner  chez  vous  ce  soir : 
vous  nous  menerez  a  I'opera,  et  nous  ferons  une  petite 
partie  d'ecarte.  Tenez  vous  bien,  M.  Gobard!  ces  dames 
ont  des  pro  jets  sur  vous!  " 

Happy  Gobard!  happy  system,  which  can  thus  bring 
the  pure  and  loving  together,  and  acts  as  the  best  ally  of 
Hymen!  The  announcement  of  the  rank  and  titles  of 
Madame  de  St.  Bertrand—"  veuve  de  la  grande  armee  " 
—is  very  happy.  ''  La  grande  armee  "  has  been  a  father 
to  more  orphans,  and  a  husband  to  more  widows,  than  it 
ever  made.  Mistresses  of  cafes,  old  governesses,  keepers 
of  boarding-houses,  genteel  beggars,  and  ladies  of  lower 
rank  still,  have  this  favourite  pedigree.    They  have  all 


244  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

had  malheurs  (what  kind  it  is  needless  to  particularize), 
they  are  all  connected  with  the  grand  liomme,  and  their 
fathers  were  all  colonels.  This  title  exactly  answers 
to  the  "  clergyman's  daughter  "  in  England— as,  "  A 
young  lady,  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  is  desirous  to 
teach,"  &c. ;  "  A  clergyman's  widow  receives  into  her 
house  a  few  select,"  and  so  forth.  "  Appeal  to  the  be- 
nevolent.— By  a  series  of  unheard-of  calamities,  a  young 
lady,  daughter  of  a  clergyman  in  the  west  of  England, 
has  been  plunged,"  &c.  &c.  The  difference  is  curious, 
as  indicating  the  standard  of  respectability. 

The  male  beggar  of  fashion  is  not  so  well  known 
among  us  as  in  Paris,  where  street-doors  are  open ;  six  or 
eight  families  live  in  a  house;  and  the  gentleman  who 
earns  his  livelihood  by  this  profession  can  make  half-a- 
dozen  visits  without  the  trouble  of  knocking  from  house  to 
house,  and  the  pain  of  being  observed  by  the  whole  street, 
while  the  footman  is  examining  him  from  the  area. 
Some  few  may  be  seen  in  England  about  the  inns  of 
court,  where  the  locality  is  favourable  (where,  however, 
the  owners  of  the  chambers  are  not  proverbially  soft  of 
heart,  so  that  the  harvest  must  be  poor)  ;  but  Paris  is  full 
of  such  adventurers,— fat,  smooth-tongued,  and  well 
dressed,  with  gloves  and  gilt-headed  canes,  who  would 
be  insulted  almost  by  the  offer  of  silver,  and  expect  your 
gold  as  their  right.  Among  these,  of  course,  our  friend 
Robert  plays  his  part ;  and  an  excellent  engraving  repre- 
sents him,  snuff-box  in  hand,  advancing  to  an  old  gentle- 
man, whom,  by  his  poodle,  his  powdered  head,  and  his 
drivelling,  stupid  look  one  knows  to  be  a  Carlist  of  the 
old  regime.  "  I  beg  pardon,"  says  Robert:  "  is  it  really 
yourself  to  whom  I  have  the  honour  of  speaking?  " 
-"It  is."     "Do  you  take  snufF?  "-"  I  thank  you." 


CARICATURES    AND    LITHOGRAPHY     245 

"  Sir,  I  have  had  misfortunes— I  want  assistance.  I  am 
a  Vendean  of  illustrious  birth.  You  know  the  family  of 
Macairhec — we  are  of  Brest.  JNIy  grandfather  served 
the  King  in  his  galleys;  my  father  and  I  belong,  also, 
to  the  marine.  Unfortunate  suits  at  law  have  plunged 
us  into  difficulties,  and  I  do  not  hesitate  to  ask  you  for 
the  succour  of  ten  francs." — "  Sir,  I  never  give  to  those 
I  don't  know."—"  Right,  sir,  perfectly  right.  Perhaps 
you  will  liave  the  kindness  to  lend  me  ten  francs? " 

The  adventures  of  Doctor  Macaire  need  not  be  de- 
scribed, because  the  different  degrees  in  quackery  which 
are  taken  by  that  learned  physician  are  all  well  known  in 
England,  where  we  have  the  advantage  of  many  higher 
degrees  in  the  science,  which  our  neighbours  know 
nothing  about.  We  have  not  Hahnemann,  but  we  have 
his  disciples;  we  have  not  Broussais,  but  we  have  the  Col- 
lege of  Health;  and  surely  a  dose  of  JNIorrison's  pills  is 
a  sublimer  discovery  than  a  draught  of  hot  water.  We 
had  St.  John  Long,  too— where  is  his  science?— and  we 
are  credibly  informed  that  some  important  cures  have 
been  effected  by  the  inspired  dignitaries  of  "  the  church  " 
in  Newman  Street— which,  if  it  continue  to  practise,  will 
sadly  interfere  with  the  profits  of  the  regular  physicians, 
and  where  the  miracles  of  the  Abbe  Paris  are  about  to  be 
acted  over  again. 

In  speaking  of  M.  INIacaire  and  his  adventures,  we 
have  managed  so  entirely  to  convince  ourselves  of  the 
reality  of  the  personage,  that  we  have  quite  forgotten 
to  speak  of  Messrs.  Philipon  and  Daumier,  who  are,  the 
one  the  inventor,  the  other  the  designer,  of  the  Macaire 
Picture  Gallery.  As  works  of  esprit,  these  drawings 
are  not  more  remarkable  than  they  are  as  works  of  art, 
and  w^e  never  recollect  to  have  seen  a  series  of  sketches 


246  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

possessing  more  extraordinary  cleverness  and  variety. 
The  countenance  and  figure  of  Macaire  and  the  dear  stu- 
pid Bertrand  are  preserved,  of  course,  with  great  fidehty 
throughout;  but  the  admirable  way  in  which  each  fresh 
character  is  conceived,  the  grotesque  appropriateness  of 
Robert's  every  successive  attitude  and  gesticulation,  and 
the  variety  of  Bertrand's  postures  of  invariable  repose, 
the  exquisite  fitness  of  all  the  other  characters,  who  act 
their  little  part  and  disappear  from  the  scene,  cannot  be 
described  on  paper,  or  too  highly  lauded.  The  figures  are 
very  carelessly  drawn ;  but,  if  the  reader  can  understand 
us,  all  the  attitudes  and  limbs  are  perfectly  conceived, 
and  wonderfully  natural  and  various.  After  pondering 
over  these  drawings  for  some  hours,  as  w^e  have  been 
while  compiling  this  notice  of  them,  we  have  grown  to 
believe  that  the  personages  are  real,  and  the  scenes  re- 
main imprinted  on  the  brain  as  if  we  had  absolutely  been 
present  at  their  acting.  Perhaps  the  clever  way  in  which 
the  plates  are  coloured,  and  the  excellent  effect  which  is 
put  into  each,  may  add  to  this  illusion.  Now,  in  looking, 
for  instance,  at  H.  B.'s  slim  vapoury  figures,  they  have 
struck  us  as  excellent  likenesses  of  men  and  women,  but 
no  more :  the  bodies  want  spirit,  action,  and  individuality. 
George  Cruikshank,  as  a  humourist,  has  quite  as  much 
genius,  but  he  does  not  know  the  art  of  "effect  "  so  well 
as  Monsieur  Daumier;  and,  if  we  might  venture  to  give 
a  word  of  advice  to  another  humorous  designer,  whose 
works  are  extensively  circulated — the  illustrator  of 
"  Pickwick  "  and  "  Nicholas  Nickleby,"— it  would  be 
to  study  well  these  caricatures  of  ]Monsieur  Daumier; 
who,  though  he  executes  very  carelessly,  knows  very  well 
what  he  would  express,  indicates  perfectly  the  attitude 
and  identity  of  his  figure,  and  is  quite  aware,  before- 


CARICATURES    AXD    LITHOGRAPHY    247 

hand,  of  the  effect  which  he  intends  to  produce.  The 
one  we  should  fancy  to  be  a  practised  artist,  taking  his 
ease;  the  other,  a  young  one,  somewhat  bewildered:  a 
very  clever  one,  however,  who,  if  he  would  think  more, 
and  exaggerate  less,  would  add  not  a  little  to  his  repu- 
tation. 

Having  pursued,  all  through  these  remarks,  the  com- 
parison between  English  art  and  French  art,  English 
and  French  humour,  manners,  and  morals,  perhaps  we 
should  endeavour,  also,  to  write  an  analytical  essay  on 
English  cant  or  humbug,  as  distinguished  from  French. 
It  might  be  shown  that  the  latter  was  more  picturesque 
and  startling,  the  former  more  substantial  and  positive. 
It  has  none  of  the  poetic  flights  of  the  French  genius, 
but  advances  steadily,  and  gains  more  ground  in  the  end 
than  its  sprightlier  compeer.  But  such  a  discussion 
would  carry  us  through  the  whole  range  of  French  and 
English  history,  and  the  reader  has  probably  read  quite 
enough  of  the  subject  in  this  and  the  foregoing  pages. 

We  shall,  therefore,  say  no  more  of  French  and  Eng- 
lish caricatures  generally,  or  of  M.  Macaire's  particular 
accomplishments  and  adventures.  They  are  far  better 
understood  by  examining  the  original  pictures,  by  which 
Philipon  and  Daumier  have  illustrated  them,  than  by 
translations  first  into  print  and  afterwards  into  English. 
They  form  a  very  curious  and  insti-uctive  commentary 
upon  the  present  state  of  society  in  Paris,  and  a  hundred 
years  hence,  when  the  whole  of  this  strugghng,  noisy, 
busy,  merry  race  shall  have  exchanged  their  pleasures 
or  occupations  for  a  quiet  coffin  (and  a  tawdry  lying 
epitaph)  at  Montmartre,  or  Pere  la  Chaise;  when  the 
follies  here  recorded  shall  have  been  superseded  by  new 
ones,  and  the  fools  now  so  active  shall  have  given  up 


248  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

the  inheritance  of  the  world  to  their  children:  the  latter 
will,  at  least,  have  the  advantage  of  knowing,  intimately 
and  exactly,  the  manners  of  life  and  being  of  their '^ 
grandsires,  and  calling  up,  when  they  so  choose  it,  our 
ghosts  from  the  grave,  to  live,  love,  quarrel,  swindle, 
suffer,  and  struggle  on  blindly  as  of  yore.  And  when 
the  amused  speculator  shall  have  laughed  sufficiently  at 
the  immensity  of  our  follies,  and  the  paltriness  of  our 
aims,  smiled  at  our  exploded  superstitions,  wondered 
how  this  man  should  be  considered  great,  who  is  now 
clean  forgotten  (as  copious  Guthrie  before  mentioned)  ; 
how  this  should  have  been  thought  a  patriot  who  is  but 
a  knave  spouting  commonplace ;  or  how  that  should  have 
been  dubbed  a  philosopher  who  is  but  a  dull  fool,  blink- 
ing solemn,  and  pretending  to  see  in  the  dark ;  when  he 
shall  have  examined  all  these  at  his  leisure,  smiling  in  a 
pleasant  contempt  and  good-humoured  superiority,  and 
thanking  heaven  for  his  increased  lights,  he  will  shut  the 
book,  and  be  a  fool  as  his  fathers  were  before  him. 

It  runs  in  the  blood.    Well  hast  thou  said,  O  ragged 
Macaire,— "  Le  jour  va  passer,  mais  les  badauds  ne 

PASSERONT   PAS." 


LITTLE    POINSINET 

ABOUT  the  year  1760,  there  hved,  at  Paris,  a  little 
L  fellow,  who  was  the  darling  of  all  the  wags  of  his 
acquaintance.  Nature  seemed,  in  the  formation  of  this 
little  man,  to  have  amused  herself,  by  giving  loose  to 
half  a  hundred  of  her  most  comical  caprices.  He  had 
some  wit  and  drollery  of  his  own,  which  sometimes 
rendered  his  sallies  very  amusing ;  but,  where  his  friends 
laughed  with  him  once,  they  laughed  at  him  a  thousand 
times,  for  he  had  a  fund  of  absurdity  in  himself  that  was 
more  pleasant  than  all  the  wit  in  the  world.  He  was  as 
proud  as  a  peacock,  as  wicked  as  an  ape,  and  as  silly  as 
a  goose.  He  did  not  possess  one  single  grain  of  common 
sense;  but,  in  revenge,  his  pretensions  were  enormous, 
his  ignorance  vast,  and  his  credulity  more  extensive  still. 
From  his  youth  upwards,  he  had  read  nothing  but  the 
new  novels,  and  the  verses  in  the  almanacs,  which  helped 
him  not  a  little  in  making,  what  he  called,  poetry  of  his 
own ;  for,  of  course,  our  little  hero  was  a  poet.  All  the 
common  usages  of  life,  all  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  all 
the  customs  of  society,  seemed  to  be  quite  unknown  to 
him;  add  to  these  good  qualities,  a  magnificent  conceit, 
a  cowardice  inconceivable,  and  a  face  so  irresistibly 
comic,  that  every  one  who  first  beheld  it  was  compelled 
to  burst  out  a-laughing,  and  you  will  have  some  notion 
of  this  strange  little  gentleman.  He  was  very  proud  of 
his  voice,  and  uttered  all  his  sentences  in  the  richest  tragic 

249 


250  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

tone.  He  was  little  better  than  a  dwarf ;  but  he  elevated 
his  eyebrows,  held  up  his  neck,  walked  on  the  tips  of  his 
toes,  and  gave  himself  the  airs  of  a  giant.  He  had  a 
little  pair  of  bandy  legs,  which  seemed  much  too  short 
to  support  anything  like  a  human  body ;  but,  by  the  help 
of  these  crooked  supporters,  he  thought  he  could  dance 
like  a  Grace ;  and,  indeed,  fancied  all  the  graces  possible 
were  to  be  found  in  his  person.  His  goggle  eyes  were 
always  rolling  about  wildly,  as  if  in  correspondence  with 
the  disorder  of  his  little  brain ;  and  his  countenance  thus 
wore  an  expression  of  perpetual  wonder.  With  such 
happy  natural  gifts,  he  not  only  fell  into  all  traps  that 
were  laid  for  him,  but  seemed  almost  to  go  out  of  his  way 
to  seek  them ;  although,  to  be  sure,  his  friends  did  not  give 
him  much  trouble  in  that  search,  for  they  prepared 
hoaxes  for  him  incessantly. 

One  day  the  wags  introduced  him  to  a  company  of 
ladies,  who,  though  not  countesses  and  princesses  exactly, 
took,  nevertheless,  those  titles  upon  themselves  for  the 
nonce ;  and  were  all,  for  the  same  reason,  violently  smit- 
ten with  Master  Poinsinet's  person.  One  of  them,  the 
lady  of  the  house,  was  especially  tender;  and,  seating 
him  by  her  side  at  supper,  so  plied  him  with  smiles,  ogles, 
and  champagne,  that  our  little  hero  grew  crazed  with 
ecstasy,  and  wild  with  love.  In  the  midst  of  his  happi- 
ness, a  cruel  knock  was  heard  below,  accompanied  by 
quick  loud  talking,  swearing,  and  shuffling  of  feet:  you 
would  have  thought  a  regiment  was  at  the  door.  "  O 
heavens!  "  cried  the  marchioness,  starting  up,  and  giving 
to  the  hand  of  Poinsinet  one  parting  squeeze;  "  fly — fly, 
my  Poinsinet:  'tis  the  colonel — my  husband!  "  At  this, 
each  gentleman  of  the  party  rose,  and,  drawing  his 
rapier,  vowed  to  cut  his  way  through  the  colonel  and  all 


LITTLE    POIXSINET  251 

his  moiisquetaireSj  or  die,  if  need  be,  by  the  side  of 
Poinsinet. 

The  httle  fellow  was  obliged  to  lug  out  his  sword  too, 
and  went  shuddering  downstairs,  heartily  repenting  of 
his  passion  for  marchionesses.  When  the  party  arrived 
in  the  street,  they  found,  sure  enough,  a  dreadful  com- 
pany of  mousqxietaires,  as  they  seemed,  ready  to  oppose 
their  passage.  Swords  crossed, — torches  blazed;  and, 
with  the  most  dreadful  shouts  and  imprecations,  the  con- 
tending parties  rushed  upon  one  another;  the  friends  of 
Poinsinet  surrounding  and  supporting  that  little  war- 
rior, as  the  French  knights  did  King  Francis  at  Pavia, 
otherwise  the  poor  fellow  certainly  would  have  fallen 
down  in  the  gutter  from  fright. 

But  the  combat  was  suddenly  interrupted;  for  the 
neighbours,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  trick  going  on,  and 
thought  the  brawl  was  real,  had  been  screaming  with  all 
their  might  for  the  police,  who  began  about  this  time  to 
arrive.  Directly  they  appeared,  friends  and  enemies  of 
Poinsinet  at  once  took  to  their  heels ;  and,  in  this  part  of 
the  transaction,  at  least,  our  hero  himself  showed  that  he 
was  equal  to  the  longest-legged  grenadier  that  ever  ran 
away. 

When,  at  last,  those  little  bandy  legs  of  his  had  borne 
him  safely  to  his  lodgings,  all  Poinsinet's  friends 
crowded  round  him,  to  congratulate  him  on  his  escape 
and  his  valour. 

"  Egad,  how  he  pinked  that  great  red-haired  fellow!  " 
said  one. 

"  No;  did  I?  "  said  Poinsinet. 

"  Did  you?  Psha!  don't  try  to  play  the  modest,  and 
humbug  us;  you  know  you  did.  I  suppose  you  will  say, 
next,  that  you  were  not  for  three  minutes  point  to  point 


252         THE    PARIS    SKETCH    BOOK 

with  Cartentierce  himself,  the  most  dreadful  swordsman 
of  the  army." 

"  Why,  you  see,"  says  Poinsinet,  quite  delighted,  "  it 
was  so  dark  that  I  did  not  know  with  whom  I  was  en- 
gaged; although,  corhleu,  I  did  for  one  or  two  of  the 
fellows."  And  after  a  little  more  of  such  conversation, 
during  which  he  was  fully  persuaded  that  he  had  done 
for  a  dozen  of  the  enemy  at  least,  Poinsinet  went  to  bed, 
his  little  person  trembling  with  fright  and  pleasure ;  and 
he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  of  rescuing  ladies,  and  de- 
stroying monsters,  like  a  second  Amadis  de  Gaul. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  found  a  party  of 
his  friends  in  his  room:  one  was  examining  his  coat  and 
waistcoat;  another  was  casting  many  curious  glances  at 
his  inexpressibles.  "Look  here!"  said  this  gentleman, 
holding  up  the  garment  to  the  light;  "  one — two — three 
gashes !  I  am  hanged  if  the  cowards  did  not  aim  at  Poin- 
sinet's  legs!  There  are  four  holes  in  the  sword  arm  of 
his  coat,  and  seven  have  gone  right  through  coat  and 
waistcoat.  Good  heaven !  Poinsinet,  have  you  had  a  sur- 
geon to  your  wounds?  " 

"Wounds!"  said  the  little  man,  springing  up,  "I 
don't  know — that  is,  I  hope— that  is— O  Lord!  O  Lord! 
I  hope  I'm  not  wounded!  "  and,  after  a  proper  exam- 
ination, he  discovered  he  was  not. 

"  Thank  heaven !  thank  heaven !  "  said  one  of  the  wags 
(who,  indeed,  during  the  slumbers  of  Poinsinet  had  been 
occupied  in  making  these  very  holes  through  the  gar- 
ments of  that  individual) ,  "  if  you  have  escaped,  it  is  by 
a  miracle.  Alas !  alas !  all  your  enemies  have  not  been  so 
lucky." 

"  How!  is  anybody  wounded?  "  said  Poinsinet. 

"  My  dearest  friend,  prepare  yourself ;  that  unhappy 


LITTLE  POINSINET  253 

man  who  came  to  revenge  his  menaced  honour — that  gal- 
lant officer— that  injured  husband,  Colonel  Count  de 
Cartentierce — " 

"Well?" 

"  Is  NO  more!  he  died  this  morning,  pierced  through 
with  nineteen  wounds  from  your  hand,  and  calling  upon 
his  country  to  revenge  his  murder." 

When  this  awful  sentence  was  pronounced,  all  the 
auditory  gave  a  pathetic  and  simultaneous  sob;  and  as 
for  Poinsinet,  he  sank  back  on  his  bed  with  a  howl  of  ter- 
ror, which  would  have  melted  a  Visigoth  to  tears,  or  to 
laughter.  As  soon  as  his  terror  and  remorse  had,  in 
some  degree,  subsided,  his  comrades  spoke  to  him  of  the 
necessity  of  making  his  escape;  and,  huddling  on  his 
clothes,  and  bidding  them  all  a  tender  adieu,  he  set  off, 
incontinently,  without  his  breakfast,  for  England,  Amer- 
ica, or  Russia,  not  knowing  exactly  which. 

One  of  his  companions  agreed  to  accompany  him  on  a 
part  of  this  journey,— that  is,  as  far  as  the  barrier  of  St. 
Denis,  which  is,  as  everybody  knows,  on  the  high  road  to 
Dover ;  and  there,  being  tolerably  secure,  they  entered  a 
tavern  for  breakfast;  which  meal,  the  last  that  he  ever 
was  to  take,  perhaps,  in  his  native  city,  Poinsinet  was 
just  about  to  discuss,  when,  behold!  a  gentleman  en- 
tered the  apartment  where  Poinsinet  and  his  friend  were 
seated,  and,  drawing  from  his  pocket  a  paper,  with  "  Au 
NOM  DU  Roy  "  flourished  on  the  top,  read  from  it,  or 
rather  from  Poinsinet's  own  figure,  his  exact  signale- 
ment,  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  arrested  him  in 
the  name  of  the  King,  and  of  the  provost-marshal  of 
Paris.  "  I  arrest  you,  sir,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  with  re- 
gret; you  have  slain  with  seventeen  wounds,  in  single 
combat,  Colonel  Count  de  Cartentierce,  one  of  his  Maj- 


254  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

esty's  household;  and,  as  his  murderer,  you  fall  under 
the  immediate  authority  of  the  provost-marshal,  and  die 
without  trial  or  benefit  of  clergy." 

You  may  fancy  how  the  poor  little  man's  appetite  fell 
when  he  heard  this  speech.  "  In  the  provost-marshal's 
hands?"  said  his  friend:  "then  it  is  all  over,  indeed! 
When  does  my  poor  friend  suffer,  sir?  " 

"  At  half -past  six  o'clock,  the  day  after  to-morrow,'* 
said  the  officer,  sitting  down,  and  helping  himself  to 
wine.  "But  stop,"  said  he,  suddenly;  "sure  I  can't 
mistake?  Yes — no— yes,  it  is.  My  dear  friend,  my 
dear  Durand !  don't  you  recollect  your  old  schoolfellow, 
Antoine?  "  And  herewith  the  officer  flung  himself  into 
the  arms  of  Durand,  Poinsinet's  comrade,  and  they  per- 
formed a  most  affecting  scene  of  friendship. 

"  This  may  be  of  some  service  to  you,"  whispered  Du- 
rand to  Poinsinet;  and,  after  some  further  parley,  he 
asked  the  officer  when  he  was  bound  to  deliver  up  his  pris- 
oner ;  and,  hearing  that  he  was  not  called  upon  to  appear 
at  the  Marshalsea  before  six  o'clock  at  night.  Monsieur 
Durand  prevailed  upon  Monsieur  Antoine  to  wait  until 
that  hour,  and  in  the  meantime  to  allow  his  prisoner  to 
walk  about  the  town  in  his  company.  This  request  was, 
with  a  little  difficulty,  granted;  and  poor  Poinsinet 
begged  to  be  carried  to  the  houses  of  his  various  friends, 
and  bid  them  farewell.  Some  were  aware  of  the  trick 
that  had  been  played  upon  him ;  others  were  not ;  but  the 
poor  little  man's  credulity  was  so  great,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  undeceive  him;  and  he  went  from  house  to 
house  bewailing  his  fate,  and  followed  by  the  complaisant 
marshal's  officer. 

The  news  of  his  death  he  received  with  much  more 
meekness  than  could  have  been  expected;  but  what  he 


LITTLE  POINSINET  255 

could  not  reconcile  to  himself  was,  the  idea  of  dissection 
afterwards.  "  What  can  they  want  with  me?  "  cried  the 
poor  wretch,  in  an  unusual  fit  of  candour.  "  I  am  very 
small  and  ugly;  it  would  be  different  if  I  were  a  tall 
fine-looking  fellow."  But  he  was  given  to  understand 
that  beauty  made  very  little  difference  to  the  surgeons, 
who,  on  the  contrary,  would,  on  certain  occasions,  prefer  a 
deformed  man  to  a  handsome  one ;  for  science  was  nmch 
advanced  by  the  study  of  such  monstrosities.  With  this 
reason  Poinsinet  was  obliged  to  be  content;  and  so  paid 
his  rounds  of  visits,  and  repeated  his  dismal  adieux. 

The  officer  of  the  provost-marshal,  however  amusing 
Poinsinet's  woes  might  have  been,  began,  by  this  time, 
to  grow  very  weary  of  them,  and  gave  him  more  than  one 
opportunity  to  escape.  He  would  stop  at  shop-windows, 
loiter  round  corners,  and  look  up  in  the  sky,  but  all  in 
vain:  Poinsinet  would  not  escape,  do  what  the  other 
would.  At  length  luckily,  about  dinner-time,  the  officer 
met  one  of  Poinsinet's  friends  and  his  own:  and  the 
three  agreed  to  dine  at  a  tavern,  as  they  had  breakfasted ; 
and  here  the  officer,  who  vowed  that  he  had  been  up  for 
five  weeks  incessantly,  fell  suddenly  asleep,  in  the  pro- 
foundest  fatigue;  and  Poinsinet  was  persuaded,  after 
much  hesitation  on  his  part,  to  take  leave  of  him. 

And  now,  this  danger  overcome,  another  was  to  be 
avoided.  Beyond  a  doubt  the  police  were  after  him,  and 
how  was  he  to  avoid  them?  He  must  be  disguised,  of 
course;  and  one  of  his  friends,  a  tall,  gaunt,  lawyer's 
clerk,  agreed  to  provide  him  with  habits. 

So  little  Poinsinet  dressed  himself  out  in  the  clerk's 
dingy  black  suit,  of  which  the  knee-breeches  hung  down 
to  his  heels,  and  the  waist  of  the  coat  reached  to  the  calves 
of  his  legs;  and,  furthermore,  he  blacked  his  eyebrows, 


256  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

and  wore  a  huge  black  periwig,  in  which  his  friend  vowed 
that  no  one  could  recognize  him.  But  the  most  painful 
incident,  with  regard  to  the  periwig,  was,  that  Poinsinet, 
whose  solitary  beauty— if  beauty  it  might  be  called— was 
a  head  of  copious,  curling,  yellow  hair,  was  compelled  to 
snip  off  every  one  of  his  golden  locks,  and  to  rub  the 
bristles  with  a  black  dye;  "for  if  your  wig  were  to 
come  off,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  and  your  fair  hair  to  tumble 
over  your  shoulders,  every  man  would  know,  or  at  least 
suspect  you."  So  off  the  locks  were  cut,  and  in  his  black 
suit  and  periwig  little  Poinsinet  went  abroad. 

His  friends  had  their  cue;  and  when  he  appeared 
amongst  them,  not  one  seemed  to  know  him.  He  was 
taken  into  companies  where  his  character  was  discussed 
before  him,  and  his  wonderful  escape  spoken  of.  At 
last  he  was  introduced  to  the  very  officer  of  the  provost- 
marshal  who  had  taken  him  into  custody,  and  who  told 
him  that  he  had  been  dismissed  the  provost's  service,  in 
consequence  of  the  escape  of  the  prisoner.  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  poor  Poinsinet  thought  himself  tolerably  safe, 
and  blessed  his  kind  friends  who  had  procured  for  him 
such  a  complete  disguise.  How  this  affair  ended  I  know 
not, — whether  some  new  lie  was  coined  to  account  for 
his  release,  or  whether  he  was  simply  told  that  he  had 
been  hoaxed:  it  mattered  little;  for  the  little  man  was 
quite  as  ready  to  be  hoaxed  the  next  day. 

Poinsinet  was  one  day  invited  to  dine  with  one  of  the 
servants  of  the  Tuileries;  and,  before  his  arrival,  a  per- 
son in  company  had  been  decorated  with  a  knot  of  lace 
and  a  gold  key,  such  as  chamberlains  wear;  he  was  in- 
troduced to  Poinsinet  as  the  Count  de  Truchses,  cham- 
berlain to  the  King  of  Prussia.  After  dinner  the  con- 
versation fell  upon  the  Count's  visit  to  Paris;  when  his 


Poinsinet  in  Disguise 


LITTLE  POINSINET  257 

Excellency,  with  a  mysterious  air,  vowed  that  he  had  only 
come  for  pleasure.  "  It  is  mighty  well,"  said  a  third 
person,  "  and,  of  course,  we  can't  cross-question  your 
lordship  too  closely ;  "  but  at  the  same  time  it  was  hinted 
to  Poinsinet  that  a  person  of  such  consequence  did  not 
travel  for  nothing,  with  which  opinion  Poinsinet  sol- 
emnly agreed ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  borne  out  by  a  subse- 
quent declaration  of  the  Count,  who  condescended,  at 
last,  to  tell  the  company,  in  confidence,  that  he  had  a 
mission,  and  a  most  important  one— to  find,  namely, 
among  the  literary  men  of  France,  a  governor  for  the 
Prince  Royal  of  Prussia.  The  company  seemed  aston- 
ished that  the  King  had  not  made  choice  of  Voltaire  or 
D'Alembert,  and  mentioned  a  dozen  other  distinguished 
men  who  might  be  competent  to  this  important  duty; 
but  the  Count,  as  may  be  imagined,  found  objections  to 
every  one  of  them;  and,  at  last,  one  of  the  guests  said, 
that,  if  his  Prussian  Majesty  was  not  particular  as  to 
age,  he  knew  a  person  more  fitted  for  the  place  than  any 
other  who  could  be  found, — his  honourable  friend,  M. 
Poinsinet,  was  the  individual  to  whom  he  alluded. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  the  Count,  "is  it  possible 
that  the  celebrated  Poinsinet  would  take  such  a  place  ?  I 
would  give  the  world  to  see  him!  "  And  you  may  fancy 
how  Poinsinet  simpered  and  blushed  when  the  introduc- 
tion immediately  took  place. 

The  Count  protested  to  him  that  the  King  would  be 
charmed  to  know  him ;  and  added,  that  one  of  his  operas 
(for  it  must  be  told  that  our  little  friend  was  a  vaude- 
ville-maker by  trade)  had  been  acted  seven-and-twenty 
times  at  the  theatre  at  Potsdam.  His  Excellency  then 
detailed  to  him  all  the  honours  and  privileges  which  the 
governor  of  the  Prince  Royal  might  expect ;  and  all  the 


258  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

guests  encouraged  the  little  man's  vanity,  by  asking  him 
for  his  protection  and  favour.  In  a  short  time  our  hero 
grew  so  inflated  with  pride  and  vanity,  that  he  was  for 
patronizing  the  chamberlain  himself,  who  proceeded  to 
inform  him  that  he  was  furnished  with  all  the  necessary 
powers  by  his  sovereign,  who  had  specially  enjoined  him 
to  confer  upon  the  future  governor  of  his  son  the  royal 
order  of  the  Black  Eagle. 

Poinsinet,  delighted,  was  ordered  to  kneel  down ;  and 
the  Count  produced  a  large  yellow  riband,  which  he 
hung  over  his  shoulder,  and  which  was,  he  declared,  the 
grand  cordon  of  the  order.  You  must  fancy  Poinsinet's 
face,  and  excessive  delight  at  this;  for  as  for  describing 
them,  nobody  can.  For  four-and-twenty  hours  the 
happy  chevalier  paraded  through  Paris  with  this  flar- 
ing yellow  riband;  and  he  was  not  undeceived  until  his 
friends  had  another  trick  in  store  for  him. 

He  dined  one  day  in  the  company  of  a  man  who  un- 
derstood a  little  of  the  noble  art  of  conjuring,  and  per- 
formed some  clever  tricks  on  the  cards.  Poinsinet's  or- 
gan of  wonder  was  enormous;  he  looked  on  with  the 
gravity  and  awe  of  a  child,  and  thought  the  man's  tricks 
sheer  miracles.  It  wanted  no  more  to  set  his  companions 
to  work. 

"  Who  is  this  wonderful  man? "  said  he  to  his  neigh- 
bour. 

"  Why,"  said  the  other,  mysteriously,  "  one  hardly 
knows  who  he  is;  or,  at  least,  one  does  not  like  to  say 
to  such  an  indiscreet  fellow  as  you  are."  Poinsinet  at 
once  swore  to  be  secret.  "  Well,  then,"  said  his  friend, 
*'  you  will  hear  that  man — that  wonderful  man — called 
by  a  name  which  is  not  his :  his  real  name  is  Acosta ;  he  is 
a  Portuguese  Jew,  a  Rosicrucian,  and  Cabalist  of  the 


LITTLE  POIXSIXET  259 

first  order,  and  compelled  to  leave  Lisbon  for  fear  of  the 
Inquisition.  He  performs  here,  as  you  see,  some  ex- 
traordinary things,  occasionally;  but  the  master  of  the 
house,  who  loves  him  excessively,  would  not,  for  the 
world,  that  his  name  should  be  made  public." 

"Ah,  bah!"  said  Poinsinet,  who  affected  the  bel  es- 
prit; "  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  believe  in  magic, 
and  cabalas,  and  such  trash?  " 

"Do  I  not?  You  shall  judge  for  yourself."  And, 
accordingly,  Poinsinet  was  presented  to  the  magician, 
who  pretended  to  take  a  vast  liking  for  him,  and  declared 
that  he  saw  in  him  certain  marks  which  would  infallibly 
lead  him  to  great  eminence  in  the  magic  art,  if  he  chose  to 
study  it. 

Dinner  was  served,  and  Poinsinet  placed  by  the  side  of 
the  miracle-worker,  who  became  very  confidential  with 
him,  and  promised  him— ay,  before  dinner  was  over— a 
remarkable  instance  of  his  power.  Nobody,  on  this  oc- 
casion, ventured  to  cut  a  single  joke  against  poor  Poin- 
sinet; nor  could  he  fancy  that  any  trick  was  intended 
against  him,  for  the  demeanour  of  the  society  towards 
him  was  perfectly  grave  and  respectful,  and  the  conver- 
sation serious.  On  a  sudden,  however,  somebody  ex- 
claimed, "  Where  is  Poinsinet?  Did  any  one  see  him 
leave  the  room? " 

All  the  company  exclaimed  how  singular  the  disap- 
pearance was;  and  Poinsinet  himself,  growing  alarmed, 
turned  round  to  his  neighbour,  and  was  about  to  explain. 

"  Hush!  "  said  the  magician,  in  a  whisper;  "  I  told  you 
that  you  should  see  what  I  could  do.  I  have  made  you 
invisible;  be  quiet,  and  you  shall  see  some  more  tricks 
that  I  shall  play  with  these  fellows." 

Poinsinet  remained  then  silent,  and  listened  to  his 


260  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

neighbours,  who  agreed  at  last,  that  he  was  a  quiet,  or- 
derly personage,  and  had  left  the  table  early,  being  un- 
willing to  drink  too  much.  Presently  they  ceased  to  talk 
about  him,  and  resumed  their  conversation  upon  other 
matters. 

At  first  it  was  very  quiet  and  grave,  but  the  master  of 
the  house  brought  back  the  talk  to  the  subject  of  Poin- 
sinet,  and  uttered  all  sorts  of  abuse  concerning  him.  He 
begged  the  gentleman,  who  had  introduced  such  a  little 
scamp  into  his  house,  to  bring  him  thither  no  more: 
whereupon  the  other  took  up,  warmly,  Poinsinet's  de- 
fence ;  declared  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  greatest  merit, 
frequenting  the  best  society,  and  remarkable  for  his 
talents  as  well  as  his  virtues. 

"  All!  "  said  Poinsinet  to  the  magician,  quite  charmed 
at  what  he  heard,  "  how  ever  shall  I  thank  you,  my  dear 
sir,  for  thus  showing  me  who  my  true  friends  are?  " 

The  magician  promised  him  still  further  favours  in 
prospect ;  and  told  him  to  look  out  now,  for  he  was  about 
to  throw  all  the  company  into  a  temporary  fit  of  madness, 
which,  no  doubt,  would  be  very  amusing. 

In  consequence,  all  the  company,  who  had  heard  every 
syllable  of  the  conversation,  began  to  perform  the  most 
extraordinary  antics,  much  to  the  delight  of  Poinsinet. 
One  asked  a  nonsensical  question,  and  the  other  delivered 
an  answer  not  at  all  to  the  purpose.  If  a  man  asked  for 
a  drink,  they  poured  him  out  a  pepper-box  or  a  napkin : 
they  took  a  pinch  of  snufF,  and  swore  it  was  excellent 
wine;  and  vowed  that  the  bread  was  the  most  delicious 
mutton  ever  tasted.    The  little  man  was  delighted. 

"  Ah!  "  said  he,  "  these  fellows  are  prettily  punished 
for  their  rascally  backbiting  of  me!  " 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  host,  "  I  shall  now  give  you 


LITTLE  POINSIXET  261 

some  celebrated  champagne,"  and  he  poured  out  to  each 
a  glass  of  water. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  one,  spitting  it  out,  with  the 
most  horrible  grimace,  "  where  did  you  get  this  detesta- 
ble claret?" 

"  Ah,  faugh!  "  said  a  second,  "  I  never  tasted  such  vile 
corked  burgundy  in  all  my  days!  "  and  he  threw  the  glass 
of  water  into  Poinsinet's  face,  as  did  half  a  dozen  of  the 
other  guests,  drenching  the  poor  wretch  to  the  skin.  To 
complete  this  pleasant  illusion,  two  of  the  guests  fell  to 
boxing  across  Poinsinet,  who  received  a  number  of  the 
blows,  and  received  them  with  the  patience  of  a  fakir, 
feeling  himself  more  flattered  by  the  precious  privilege 
of  beholding  this  scene  invisible,  than  hurt  by  the 
blows  and  buffets  which  the  mad  company  bestowed 
upon  him. 

The  fame  of  this  adventure  spread  quickly  over  Paris, 
and  all  the  world  longed  to  have  at  their  houses  the  rep- 
resentation of  Poinsinet  the  Invisible.  The  servants  and 
the  whole  company  used  to  be  put  up  to  the  trick;  and 
Poinsinet,  who  believed  in  his  invisibility  as  much  as  he 
did  in  his  existence,  went  about  with  his  friend  and  pro- 
tector the  magician.  People,  of  course,  never  pretended 
to  see  him,  and  would  very  often  not  talk  of  him  at  all  for 
some  time,  but  hold  sober  conversation  about  anything 
else  in  the  world.  When  dinner  was  served,  of  course 
there  was  no  cover  laid  for  Poinsinet,  who  carried  about  a 
little  stool,  on  which  he  sat  by  the  side  of  the  magician, 
and  always  ate  off  his  plate.  Everybody  was  astonished 
at  the  magician's  appetite  and  at  the  quantity  of  wine  he 
drank;  as  for  little  Poinsinet,  he  never  once  suspected 
any  trick,  and  had  such  a  confidence  in  his  magician,  that, 
I  do  believe,  if  the  latter  had  told  him  to  fling  himself  out 


262  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

of  window,  he  would  have  done  so,  without  the  slightest 
trepidation. 

Among  other  mystifications  in  which  the  Portuguese 
enchanter  plunged  him,  was  one  which  used  to  afford 
always  a  good  deal  of  amusement.  He  informed  Poin- 
sinet,  with  great  mystery,  that  he  was  not  Minself ;  he 
was  not,  that  is  to  say,  that  ugly,  deformed  little  monster, 
called  Poinsinet;  but  that  his  birth  was  most  illustrious, 
and  his  real  name  Polycarte.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  son 
of  a  celebrated  magician;  but  other  magicians,  enemies 
of  his  father,  had  changed  him  in  his  cradle,  altering  his 
features  into  their  present  hideous  shape,  in  order  that 
a  silly  old  fellow,  called  Poinsinet,  might  take  him  to  be 
his  own  son,  which  little  monster  the  magician  had  like- 
wise spirited  away. 

The  poor  wretch  was  sadly  cast  down  at  this;  for  he 
tried  to  fancy  that  his  person  was  agreeable  to  the  ladies, 
of  whom  he  was  one  of  the  warmest  little  admirers  pos- 
sible; and  to  console  him  somewhat,  the  magician  told 
him  that  his  real  shape  was  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  as 
soon  as  he  should  appear  in  it,  all  the  beauties  in  Paris 
would  be  at  his  feet.  But  how  to  regain  it?  "  Oh,  for 
one  minute  of  that  beauty!  "  cried  the  little  man;  "  what 
would  he  not  give  to  appear  under  that  enchanting 
form!"  The  magician  hereupon  waved  his  stick  over 
his  head,  pronounced  some  awful  magical  words,  and 
twisted  him  round  three  times;  at  the  third  twist,  the 
men  in  company  seemed  stiiick  with  astonishment  and 
envy,  the  ladies  clasped  their  hands,  and  some  of  them 
kissed  his.  Everybody  declared  his  beauty  to  be  super- 
natural. 

Poinsinet,  enchanted,  rushed  to  a  glass.  "  Fool !  " 
said  the  magician;  "  do  you  suppose  that  you  can  see  the 


LITTLE  POINSINET  263 

change?  My  power  to  render  you  invisible,  beautiful,  or 
ten  times  more  hideous  even  than  you  are,  extends  only 
to  others,  not  to  you.  You  may  look  a  thousand  times  in 
the  glass,  and  you  will  only  see  those  deformed  limbs  and 
disgusting  features  with  which  devilish  malice  has  dis- 
guised you."  Poor  little  Poinsinet  looked,  and  came  back 
in  tears.  "  But,"  resumed  the  magician, — "  ha,  ha,  ha! 
— I  know  a  way  in  which  to  disappoint  the  machinations 
of  these  fiendish  magi." 

"  Oh,  my  benefactor!— my  great  master!— for 
heaven's  sake  tell  it!  "  gasped  Poinsinet. 

"  Look  you— it  is  this.  A  prey  to  enchantment  and 
demoniac  art  all  your  life  long,  you  have  lived  until  your 
present  age  perfectly  satisfied ;  nay,  absolutely  vain  of  a 
person  the  most  singularly  hideous  that  ever  walked  the 
earth!" 

"Is  it?  "  whispered  Poinsinet.  "  Indeed  and  indeed 
I  didn't  think  it  so  bad !  " 

"He  acknowledges  it !  he  acknowledges  it !  "  roared  the 
magician.  "  Wretch,  dotard,  owl,  mole,  miserable  buz- 
zard !  I  have  no  reason  to  tell  thee  now  that  thv  form  is 
monstrous,  that  children  cry,  that  cowards  turn  pale,  that 
teeming  matrons  shudder  to  behold  it.  It  is  not  thy  fault 
that  thou  art  thus  ungainly:  but  wherefore  so  blind? 
wherefore  so  conceited  of  thyself?  I  tell  thee,  Poinsinet, 
that  over  every  fresh  instance  of  thy  vanity  the  hostile 
enchanters  rejoice  and  triumph.  As  long  as  thou  art 
blindly  satisfied  with  thyself ;  as  long  as  thou  pretendest, 
in  thy  present  odious  shape,  to  win  the  love  of  aught 
above  a  negress;  nay,  further  still,  until  thou  hast  learned 
to  regard  that  face,  as  others  do,  with  the  most  intolerable 
horror  and  disgust,  to  abuse  it  when  thou  seest  it,  to 
despise  it,  in  short,  and  treat  that  miserable  disguise  in 


264  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

which  the  enchanters  have  wrapped  thee  with  the  strong- 
est hatred  and  scorn,  so  long  art  thou  destined  to  wear  it." 

Such  speeches  as  these,  continually  repeated,  caused 
Poinsinet  to  be  fully  convinced  of  his  ugliness ;  he  used  to 
go  about  in  companies,  and  take  every  opportunity  of 
inveighing  against  himself ;  he  made  verses  and  epigrams 
against  himself;  he  talked  about  "that  dwarf,  Poinsi- 
net;" "that  buiFoon,  Poinsinet;"  "that  conceited,  hump- 
backed Poinsinet;  "  and  he  would  spend  hours  before 
the  glass,  abusing  his  own  face  as  he  saw  it  reflected  there, 
and  vowing  that  he  grew  handsomer  at  every  fresh  epi- 
thet that  he  uttered. 

Of  course  the  wags,  from  time  to  time,  used  to  give 
him  every  possible  encouragement,  and  declared  that, 
since  this  exercise,  his  person  was  amazingly  improved. 
The  ladies,  too,  began  to  be  so  excessively  fond  of  him, 
that  the  little  fellow  was  obliged  to  caution  them  at  last 
— for  the  good,  as  he  said,  of  society;  he  recommended 
them  to  draw  lots,  for  he  could  not  gratify  them  all ;  but 
promised,  when  his  metamorphosis  was  complete,  that  the 
one  chosen  should  become  the  happy  INIrs.  Poinsinet;  or 
to  speak  more  correctly,  Mrs.  Polycarte. 

I  am  sorry  to  say,  however,  that,  on  the  score  of  gal- 
lantry, Poinsinet  was  never  quite  convinced  of  the  hide- 
ousness  of  his  appearance.  He  had  a  number  of  adven- 
tures, accordingly,  with  the  ladies,  but  strange  to  say,  the 
husbands  or  fathers  were  always  interrupting  him.  On 
one  occasion  he  was  made  to  pass  the  night  in  a  slipper- 
bath  full  of  water;  where,  although  he  had  all  his  clothes 
on,  he  declared  that  he  nearly  caught  his  death  of  cold. 
Another  night,  in  revenge,  the  poor  fellow 

"  dans  le  simple  appareil 

D'une  beaute,  qu'on  vient  d'arracher  au  sommeil," 


LITTLE  POINSINET  2Go 

spent  a  number  of  hours  contemijlating  the  beauty  of 
the  moon  on  the  tiles.  These  adventures  are  pretty  nu- 
merous in  the  memoirs  of  INI.  Poinsinet;  but  the  fact  is, 
that  people  in  France  were  a  great  deal  more  philosoph- 
ical in  those  days  than  the  English  are  now,  so  that 
Poinsinet's  loves  must  be  passed  over,  as  not  being  to 
our  taste.  His  magician  was  a  great  diver,  and  told 
Poinsinet  the  most  wonderful  tales  of  his  two  minutes' 
absence  under  water.  These  two  minutes,  he  said,  lasted 
through  a  year,  at  least,  which  he  spent  in  the  company 
of  a  naiad,  more  beautiful  than  Venus,  in  a  palace 
more  splendid  than  even  Versailles.  Fired  by  the  de- 
scription, Poinsinet  used  to  dip,  and  dip,  but  he  never 
was  known  to  make  any  mermaid  acquaintances,  al- 
though he  fully  believed  that  one  day  he  should  find 
such. 

The  invisible  joke  was  brought  to  an  end  by  Poin- 
sinet's too  great  reliance  on  it;  for  being,  as  we  have  said, 
of  a  very  tender  and  sanguine  disposition,  he  one  day 
fell  in  love  with  a  lady  in  whose  company  he  dined,  and 
whom  he  actually  proposed  to  embrace ;  but  the  fair  lady, 
in  the  hurry  of  the  moment,  forgot  to  act  up  to  the 
joke;  and  instead  of  receiving  Poinsinet's  salute  with 
calmness,  grew  indignant,  called  him  an  impudent  little 
scoundrel,  and  lent  him  a  sound  box  on  the  ear.  With 
this  slap  the  invisibility  of  Poinsinet  disappeared,  the 
gnomes  and  genii  left  him,  and  he  settled  down  into 
common  life  again,  and  was  hoaxed  only  by  vulgar 
means. 

A  vast  number  of  pages  might  be  filled  with  narratives 
of  the  tricks  that  were  played  upon  him;  but  they  re- 
semble each  other  a  good  deal,  as  may  be  imagined,  and 
the  chief  point  remarkable  about  them  is  the  wondrous 


266         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

faith  of  Poinsinet.  After  being  introduced  to  the  Prus- 
sian ambassador  at  the  Tuileries,  he  was  presented  to  the 
Turkish  envoy  at  the  Place  Vendome,  who  received  him 
in  state,  surrounded  by  the  officers  of  his  estabhshment, 
all  dressed  in  the  smartest  dresses  that  the  wardrobe  of 
the  Opera  Comique  could  furnish. 

As  the  greatest  honour  that  could  be  done  to  him,  Poin- 
sinet was  invited  to  eat,  and  a  tray  was  produced,  on 
which  was  a  delicate  dish  prepared  in  the  Turkish  man- 
ner. This  consisted  of  a  reasonable  quantity  of  mustard, 
salt,  cinnamon  and  ginger,  nutmegs  and  cloves,  with  a 
couple  of  tablespoonfuls  of  cayenne  pepper,  to  give 
the  whole  a  flavour;  and  Poinsinet's  countenance  may 
be  imagined  when  he  introduced  into  his  mouth  a  quan- 
tity of  this  exquisite  compound. 

"  The  best  of  the  joke  was,"  says  the  author  who  re- 
cords so  many  of  the  pitiless  tricks  practised  upon  poor 
Poinsinet,  "  that  the  little  man  used  to  laugh  at  them 
afterwards  himself  with  perfect  good  humour ;  and  lived 
in  the  daily  hope  that,  from  being  the  sufl'erer,  he  should 
become  the  agent  in  these  hoaxes,  and  do  to  others  as  he 
had  been  done  by."  Passing,  therefore,  one  day,  on  the 
Pont  Neuf ,  with  a  friend,  who  had  been  one  of  the  great- 
est performers,  the  latter  said  to  him,  "  Poinsinet,  my 
good  fellow,  thou  hast  suffered  enough,  and  thy  suffer- 
ings have  made  thee  so  wise  and  cunning,  that  thou  art 
worthy  of  entering  among  the  initiated,  and  hoaxing  in 
thy  turn."  Poinsinet  was  charmed;  he  asked  when  he 
should  be  initiated,  and  how  ?  It  was  told  him  that  a  mo- 
ment would  suffice,  and  that  the  ceremony  might  be  per- 
formed on  the  spot.  At  this  news,  and  according  to  or- 
der, Poinsinet  flung  himself  straightway  on  his  knees  in 


LITTLE   rOINSINET  267 

the  kennel;  and  the  other,  drawing  his  sword,  solemnly 
initiated  him  into  the  sacred  order  of  jokers.  From  that 
day  the  little  man  believed  himself  received  into  the 
society ;  and  to  this  having  brought  him,  let  us  bid  him  a 
respectful  adieu. 


THE  DEVIL'S  WAGER 

IT  was  the  hour  of  the  night  when  there  be  none  stir- 
ring save  churchyard  ghosts — when  all  doors  are 
closed  except  the  gates  of  graves,  and  all  eyes  shut  but 
the  eyes  of  wicked  men. 

When  there  is  no  sound  on  the  earth  except  the  ticking 
of  the  grasshopper,  or  the  croaking  of  obscene  frogs  in 
the  poole. 

And  no  light  except  that  of  the  blinking  starres,  and 
the  wicked  and  devilish  wills-o'-the-wisp,  as  they  gambol 
among  the  marshes,  and  lead  good  men  astraye. 

When  there  is  nothing  moving  in  heaven  except  the 
owle,  as  he  flappeth  along  lazily ;  or  the  magician,  as  he 
rides  on  his  infernal  broomsticke,  whistling  through  the 
aire  like  the  arrowes  of  a  Yorkshire  archere. 

It  was  at  this  hour  (namely,  at  twelve  o'clock  of  the 

268 


THE   DEVIL'S  WAGER  269 

night,)  that  two  beings  went  winging  through  the 
black  clouds,  and  holding  converse  with  each  other. 

Now  the  first  was  JNIercurius,  the  messenger,  not  of 
gods  (as  the  heathens  feigned),  but  of  deemons;  and 
the  second,  with  whom  he  held  company,  was  the  soul  of 
Sir  Roger  de  Rollo,  the  brave  knight.  Sir  Roger  was 
Count  of  Chauchigny,  in  Champagne ;  Seigneur  of  San- 
terre,  Villacerf  and  aultre  lieux.  But  the  great  die  as 
well  as  the  humble;  and  nothing  remained  of  brave 
Roger  now,  but  his  coffin  and  his  deathless  soul. 

And  ]Mercurius,  in  order  to  keep  fast  the  soul,  his 
companion,  had  bound  him  round  the  neck  with  his  tail ; 
which,  when  the  soul  was  stubborn,  he  would  draw  so 
tight  as  to  strangle  him  well  nigh,  sticking  into  him  the 
barbed  point  thereof;  whereat  the  poor  soul,  Sir  Rollo, 
w  ould  groan  and  roar  lustily. 

Now  they  two  had  come  together  from  the  gates  of 
purgatorie,  being  bound  to  those  regions  of  fire  and 
flame  where  poor  sinners  fry  and  roast  in  specula  saecu- 
lorum. 

"  It  is  hard,"  said  the  poor  Sir  Rollo,  as  they  went 
gliding  through  the  clouds,  "  that  I  should  thus  be  con- 
demned for  ever,  and  all  for  want  of  a  single  ave." 

"  How,  Sir  Soul?  "  said  the  deemon.  "  You  were  on 
earth  so  wicked,  that  not  one,  or  a  million  of  aves,  could 
suffice  to  keep  from  hell-flame  a  creature  like  thee;  but 
cheer  up  and  be  merry;  thou  wilt  be  but  a  subject  of  our 
lord  the  Devil,  as  am  I;  and,  perhaps,  thou  wilt  be  ad- 
vanced to  posts  of  honour,  as  am  I  also:  "  and  to  show 
his  authoritie,  he  lashed  with  his  tail  the  ribbes  of  the 
wretched  Rollo. 

*'  Nevertheless,  sinner  as  I  am,  one  more  ave  would 
have  saved  me;  for  my  sister,  who  was  Abbess  of  St. 


270  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Mary  of  Chauchigny,  did  so  prevail,  by  her  prayer  and 
good  works,  for  my  lost  and  wretched  soul,  that  every 
day  I  felt  the  pains  of  purgatory  decrease ;  the  pitchforks 
which,  on  my  first  entry,  had  never  ceased  to  vex  and 
torment  my  poor  carcass,  were  now  not  applied  above 
once  a  week ;  the  roasting  had  ceased,  the  boiling  had  dis- 
continued; only  a  certain  warmth  was  kept  up,  to  re- 
mind me  of  my  situation." 

"  A  gentle  stewe,"  said  the  daemon. 

"  Yea,  truly,  I  was  but  in  a  stew,  and  all  from  the 
effects  of  the  prayers  of  my  blessed  sister.  But  yester- 
day, he  who  watched  me  in  purgatory  told  me,  that  yet 
another  prayer  from  my  sister,  and  my  bonds  should  be 
unloosed,  and  I,  who  am  now  a  devil,  should  have  been 
a  blessed  angel." 

"  And  the  other  ave?  "  said  the  daemon. 

"  She  died,  sir — my  sister  died— death  choked  her  in 
the  middle  of  the  prayer."  And  hereat  the  wretched 
spirit  began  to  weepe  and  whine  piteously;  his  salt  tears 
falling  over  his  beard,  and  scalding  the  tail  of  JNIercurius 
the  devil. 

"  It  is,  in  truth,  a  hard  case,"  said  the  daemon ;  "  but  I 
know  of  no  remedy  save  patience,  and  for  that  you  will 
have  an  excellent  opportunity  in  your  lodgings  below." 

"  But  I  have  relations,"  said  the  Earl;  "  my  kinsman 
Randal,  who  has  inherited  my  lands,  will  he  not  say  a 
prayer  for  his  uncle?  " 

"  Thou  didst  hate  and  oppress  him  when  living." 

"  It  is  true ;  but  an  ave  is  not  much ;  his  sister,  my  niece, 
Matilda-" 

*'  You  shut  her  in  a  convent,  and  hanged  her  lover." 

*'  Had  I  not  reason?  besides,  has  she  not  others? " 

*'  A  dozen,  without  doubt." 


THE   DEVIL'S  WAGER  271 

"  And  my  brother,  the  prior?  " 

"  A  liege  subject  of  my  lord  the  Devil:  he  never  opens 
his  mouth,  except  to  utter  an  oath,  or  to  swallow  a  cup  of 
wine." 

*'  And  yet,  if  but  one  of  these  would  but  say  an  ave 
for  me,  I  should  be  saved." 

"  Aves  with  them  are  rarie  aves,"  replied  Mercurius, 
wagging  his  tail  right  waggishly;  "  and,  what  is  more, 
I  w  ill  lay  thee  any  wager  that  not  one  of  these  will  say 
a  prayer  to  save  thee." 

"  I  would  wager  willingly,"  responded  he  of  Chau- 
chigny;  "  but  what  has  a  poor  soul  like  me  to  stake? " 

"  Every  evening,  after  the  day's  roasting,  my  lord 
Satan  giveth  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  his  servants;  I  will 
bet  thee  thy  water  for  a  year,  that  none  of  the  three  will 
pray  for  thee." 

"Done!"  said  Rollo. 

"  Done !  "  said  the  daemon ;  "  and  here,  if  I  mistake  not, 
is  thy  castle  of  Chauchigny." 

Indeed,  it  w^as  true.  The  soul,  on  looking  down,  per- 
ceived the  tall  towers,  the  courts,  the  stables,  and  the  fair 
gardens  of  the  castle.  Although  it  w^as  past  midnight, 
there  was  a  blaze  of  light  in  the  banqueting-hall,  and  a 
lamp  burning  in  the  open  window  of  the  Lady  Matilda. 

"  With  whom  shall  we  begin?  "  said  the  daemon:  "  with 
the  baron  or  the  lady?  " 

"  With  the  lady,  if  you  will." 

"  Be  it  so;  her  window  is  open,  let  us  enter." 

So  they  descended,  and  entered  silently  into  Matilda's 
chamber. 

The  young  lady's  eyes  were  fixed  so  intently  on  a  little 
clock,  that  it  was  no  wonder  that  she  did  not  perceive 


272  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

the  entrance  of  her  two  visitors.  Her  fair  cheek  rested 
on  her  white  arm,  and  her  white  arm  on  the  cushion  of  a 
great  chair  in  which  she  sat,  pleasantly  supported  by 
sweet  thoughts  and  swan's  down ;  a  lute  was  at  her  side, 
and  a  book  of  prayers  lay  under  the  table  (for  piety  is 
always  modest).  Like  the  amorous  Alexander,  she 
sighed  and  looked  (at  the  clock) — and  sighed  for  ten 
minutes  or  more,  when  she  softly  breathed  the  word 
"Edward!" 

At  this  the  soul  of  the  Baron  was  wroth.  "  The  jade 
is  at  her  old  pranks,"  said  he  to  the  devil;  and  then 
addressing  Matilda:  "  I  pray  thee,  sweet  niece, 
turn  thy  thoughts  for  a  moment  from  that  villanous 
page,  Edward,  and  give  them  to  thine  affectionate 
uncle." 

When  she  heard  the  voice,  and  saw  the  awful  appari- 
tion of  her  uncle  (for  a  year's  sojourn  in  purgatory  had 
not  increased  the  comeliness  of  his  appearance),  she 
started,  screamed,  and  of  course  fainted. 

But  the  devil  Mercurius  soon  restored  her  to  herself. 
"  What's  o'clock?  "  said  she,  as  soon  as  she  had  recovered 
from  her  fit:  "  is  he  come?  " 

"  Not  thy  lover,  Maude,  but  thine  uncle— that  is,  his 
soul.  For  the  love  of  heaven,  listen  to  me :  I  have  been 
frying  in  purgatory  for  a  year  past,  and  should  have  been 
in  heaven  but  for  the  want  of  a  single  ave." 

*'  I  will  say  it  for  thee  to-morrow,  uncle." 

"  To-night,  or  never." 

"Well,  to-night  be  it:  "  and  she  requested  the  devil 
Mercurius  to  give  her  the  prayer-book  from  under  the 
table;  but  he  had  no  sooner  touched  the  holy  book  than 
he  dropped  it  with  a  shriek  and  a  yell.  "  It  was  hotter," 
he  said,  "  than  his  master  Sir  Lucifer's  own  particular 


THE  DEVIL'S  WAGER  273 

pitchfork."  And  the  lady  was  forced  to  begin  her  ave 
without  the  aid  of  her  missal. 

At  the  commencement  of  her  devotions  the  daemon 
retired,  and  carried  with  him  the  anxious  soul  of  poor 
Sir  Roger  de  Rollo. 

The  lady  knelt  down— she  sighed  deeply;  she  looked 
again  at  the  clock,  and  began— 

"  Ave  JMaria." 

When  a  lute  was  heard  under  the  window,  and  a 
sweet  voice  singing — 

"Hark!  "said  Matilda. 

"  Now  the  toils  of  day  are  over, 
And  the  sun  hath  sunk  to  rest, 
Seeking,  like  a  fiery  lover, 

The  bosom  of  the  blushing  west — 

*'  The  faithful  night  keeps  watch  and  ward, 
Raising  the  moon,  her  silver  shield, 
And  summoning  the  stars  to  guard 
The  slumbers  of  my  fair  Mathilde !  " 

"  For  mercy's  sake!  "  said  Sir  Rollo,  "  the  ave  first, 
and  next  the  song." 

So  Matilda  again  dutifully  betook  her  to  her  devo- 
tions, and  began — 

"Ave  Maria  gratia  plena!"  but  the  music  began 
again,  and  the  prayer  ceased  of  course. 

"  The  faithful  night !    Now  all  things  lie 
Hid  by  her  mantle  dark  and  dim. 
In  pious  hope  I  hither  hie. 

And  humbly  chaunt  mine  ev'ning  hymn. 


274         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

"  Thou  art  my  prayer,  my  saint,  my  shrine ! 
(For  never  holy  pilgrim  kneel'd, 
Or  wept  at  feet  more  pure  than  thine), 
My  virgin  love,  my  sweet  Mathilde !  " 

"  Virgin  love!  "  said  the  Baron.  "  Upon  my  soul,  this 
is  too  bad! "  and  he  thought  of  the  lady's  lover  whom 
he  had  caused  to  be  hanged. 

But  she  only  thought  of  him  who  stood  singing  at  her 
window. 

"  Niece  Matilda!  "  cried  Sir  Roger  agonizedly,  "  wilt 
thou  listen  to  the  lies  of  an  impudent  page,  whilst  thine 
uncle  is  waiting  but  a  dozen  words  to  make  him  happy?  " 

At  this  Matilda  grew  angry:  "  Edward  is  neither  im- 
pudent nor  a  liar.  Sir  Uncle,  and  I  will  listen  to  the  end 
of  the  song." 

"Come  away,"  said  Mercurius;  "he  hath  yet  got 
wield,  field,  sealed,  congealed,  and  a  dozen  other  rhymes 
beside;  and  after  the  song  will  come  the  supper." 

So  the  poor  soul  was  obliged  to  go ;  while  the  lady  lis- 
tened, and  the  page  sung  away  till  morning. 

^  ^  r^  ^  ^ 

"  My  virtues  have  been  my  ruin,"  said  poor  Sir  Rollo, 
as  he  and  Mercurius  slunk  silently  out  of  the  window. 
"  Had  I  hanged  that  knave  Edward,  as  I  did  the  page  his 
predecessor,  my  niece  would  have  sung  mine  ave,  and  I 
should  have  been  by  this  time  an  angel  in  heaven." 

"  He  is  reserved  for  wiser  purposes,"  responded  the 
devil:  "  he  will  assassinate  your  successor,  the  lady  Ma- 
thilde's  brother;  and,  in  consequence,  will  be  hanged. 
In  the  love  of  the  lady  he  will  be  succeeded  by  a  gardener, 
who  will  be  replaced  by  a  monk,  who  will  give  way  to 
an  ostler,  who  will  be  deposed  by  a  Jew  pedlar,  who  shall, 


THE  DEVIL'S  WAGER  275 

finally,  yield  to  a  noble  earl,  the  future  husband  of  the 
fair  Mathilde.  So  that,  you  see,  instead  of  having  one 
poor  soul  a-f rying,  we  may  now  look  forward  to  a  goodly 
harvest  for  our  lord  the  Devil." 

The  soul  of  the  Baron  began  to  think  that  his  com- 
panion knew  too  much  for  one  who  would  make  fair 
bets ;  but  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  he  would  not,  and  he 
could  not,  cry  off:  and  he  prayed  inwardly  that  the 
brother  might  be  found  more  pious  than  the  sister. 

But  there  seemed  little  chance  of  this.  As  they  crossed 
the  court,  lackeys,  with  smoking  dishes  and  full  jugs, 
passed  and  repassed  continually,  although  it  was  long 
past  midnight.  On  entering  the  hall,  they  found  Sir 
Randal  at  the  head  of  a  vast  table,  surrounded  by  a 
fiercer  and  more  motley  collection  of  individuals  than 
had  congregated  there  even  in  the  time  of  Sir  Rollo. 
The  lord  of  the  castle  had  signified  that  "  it  was  his  royal 
pleasure  to  be  drunk,"  and  the  gentlemen  of  his  train 
had  obsequiously  followed  their  master.  Mercurius  was 
delighted  with  the  scene,  and  relaxed  his  usually  rigid 
countenance  into  a  bland  and  benevolent  smile,  which  be- 
came him  wonderfully. 

The  entrance  of  Sir  Roger,  who  had  been  dead  about 
a  year,  and  a  person  with  hoofs,  horns,  and  a  tail,  rather 
disturbed  the  hilarity  of  the  company.  Sir  Randal 
dropped  his  cup  of  wine;  and  Father  Peter,  the  con- 
fessor, incontinently  paused  in  the  midst  of  a  profane 
song,  with  which  he  was  amusing  the  society. 

"  Holy  Mother!  "  cried  he,  "  it  is  Sir  Roger." 

"  Alive!  "  screamed  Sir  Randal. 

"  No,  my  lord,"  Mercurius  said;  "  Sir  Roger  is  dead, 
but  Cometh  on  a  matter  of  business;  and  I  have  the 
honour  to  act  as  his  counsellor  and  attendant." 


276         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

"  Nephew,"  said  Sir  Roger,  "  the  d£emon  saith  justly; 
I  am  come  on  a  trifling  affair,  in  which  thy  service  is  es- 
sential." 

"  I  will  do  anything,  uncle,  in  my  power." 

"  Thou  canst  give  me  life,  if  thou  wilt? "  But  Sir 
Randal  looked  very  blank  at  this  proposition.  "  I  mean 
life  spiritual,  Randal,"  said  Sir  Roger;  and  thereupon  he 
explained  to  him  the  nature  of  the  wager. 

Whilst  he  was  telling  his  story,  his  companion  Mer- 
curius  was  playing  all  sorts  of  antics  in  the  hall ;  and,  by 
his  wit  and  fun,  became  so  poj^ular  with  this  godless 
crew,  that  they  lost  all  the  fear  which  his  first  aj^pearance 
had  given  them.  The  friar  was  wonderfully  taken  with 
him,  and  used  his  utmost  eloquence  and  endeavours  to 
convert  the  devil;  the  knights  stopped  drinking  to  listen 
to  the  argument ;  the  men-at-arms  forbore  brawling ;  and 
the  wicked  little  pages  crowded  round  the  two  strange 
disputants,  to  hear  their  edifying  discourse.  The  ghostly 
man,  however,  had  little  chance  in  the  controversy,  and 
certainly  little  learning  to  carry  it  on.  Sir  Randal  in- 
terrupted him.  "  Father  Peter,"  said  he,  "  our  kinsman 
is  condemned  for  ever,  for  want  of  a  single  ave :  wilt  thou 
say  it  for  him?  "  "  Willingly,  my  lord,"  said  the  monk, 
"  with  my  book;  "  and  accordingly  he  produced  his  mis- 
sal to  read,  without  which  aid  it  appeared  that  the  holy 
father  could  not  manage  the  desired  prayer.  But  the 
crafty  Mercurius  had,  by  his  devilish  art,  inserted  a  song 
in  the  place  of  the  ave,  so  that  Father  Peter,  instead 
of  chaunting  an  hymn,  sang  the  following  irreverent 

ditty:— 

"  Some  love  the  matin-chimes,  which  tell 
The  hour  of  prayer  to  sinner: 
But  better  far's  the  mid-day  bell, 
Which  speaks  the  hour  of  dinner ; 


The  Chaplain  Puzzled 


THE  DEVIL'S  WAGER  277 

For  when  I  see  a  smoking  fish, 

Or  capon  drown'd  in  gravy, 
Or  noble  haunch  on  silver  dish, 
Full  glad  I  sing  mine  ave. 

"  My  pulpit  is  an  alehouse  bench, 

Whereon  I  sit  so  j  oily ; 
A  smiling  rosy  country  wench 

My  saint  and  patron  holy. 
I  kiss  her  cheek  so  red  and  sleek, 

I  press  her  ringlets  wavy, 
And  in  her  willing  ear  I  speak 

A  most  religious  ave. 

"  And  if  I'm  blind,  yet  heaven  is  kind. 

And  holy  saints  forgiving; 
For  sure  he  leads  a  right  good  life 

Who  thus  admires  good  living. 
Above,  they  say,  our  flesh  is  air, 

Our  blood  celestial  ichor: 
Oh,  grant !  mid  all  the  changes  there. 

They  may  not  change  our  liquor !  " 

And  with  this  pious  wish  the  holy  confessor  tumbled 
under  the  table  in  an  agony  of  devout  drunkenness; 
whilst  the  knights,  the  men-at-arms,  and  the  wicked  little 
pages,  rang  out  the  last  verse  with  a  most  melodious  and 
emphatic  glee.  "  I  am  sorry,  fair  uncle,"  hiccupped  Sir 
Randal,  "  that,  in  the  matter  of  the  ave,  we  could  not 
oblige  thee  in  a  more  orthodox  manner;  but  the  holy 
father  has  failed,  and  there  is  not  another  man  in  the  hall 
who  hath  an  idea  of  a  prayer." 

"  It  is  my  own  fault,"  said  Sir  Rollo;  "  for  I  hanged 
the  last  confessor."  And  he  wished  his  nephew  a  surly 
good-night,  as  he  prepared  to  quit  the  room. 


278         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

"  Au  revoir,  gentlemen,"  said  the  devil  Mercurius; 
and  once  more  fixed  his  tail  round  the  neck  of  his  dis- 
appointed companion. 

*^  ^  ^  ^ 

r{i  ^JV  *I*  I* 

The  spirit  of  poor  Rollo  was  sadly  cast  down;  the 
devil,  on  the  contrary,  was  in  high  good  humour.  He 
wagged  his  tail  with  the  most  satisfied  air  in  the  world, 
and  cut  a  hundred  jokes  at  the  expense  of  his  poor  asso- 
ciate. On  they  sped,  cleaving  swiftly  through  the  cold 
night  winds,  frightening  the  birds  that  were  roosting  in 
the  woods,  and  the  owls  who  were  watching  in  the  towers. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  it  is  known,  devils  can 
fly  hundreds  of  miles :  so  that  almost  the  same  beat  of  the 
clock  which  left  these  two  in  Champagne,  found  them 
hovering  over  Paris.  They  dropped  into  the  court  of  the 
Lazarist  Convent,  and  winded  their  way,  through  pas- 
sage and  cloister,  until  they  reached  the  door  of  the 
prior's  cell. 

Now  the  prior,  Rollo's  brother,  was  a  wicked  and 
malignant  sorcerer;  his  time  was  spent  in  conjuring 
devils  and  doing  wicked  deeds,  instead  of  fasting,  scourg- 
ing, and  singing  holy  psalms :  this  JNIercurius  knew ;  and 
he,  therefore,  was  fully  at  ease  as  to  the  final  result  of 
his  wager  with  poor  Sir  Roger. 

"  You  seem  to  be  well  acquainted  with  the  road,"  said 
the  knight. 

"  I  have  reason,"  answered  Mercurius,  "  having,  for 
a  long  period,  had  the  acquaintance  of  his  reverence,  your 
brother;  but  you  have  little  chance  with  him." 

"And  why?"  said  Sir  Rollo. 

*'  He  is  under  a  bond  to  my  master,  never  to  say  a 
prayer,  or  else  his  soul  and  his  body  are  forfeited  at 


once." 


THE  DEVIL'S  WAGER  279 

"  Why,  tlioii  false  and  traitorous  devil!  "  said  the  en- 
raged knight;  "and  thou  knewest  this  when  we  made 
our  wager?  " 

"  Undoubtedly:  do  you  suppose  I  would  have  done  so 
had  there  been  any  chance  of  losing?  " 

And  with  this  they  arrived  at  Father  Ignatius's  door. 

"  Thy  cursed  presence  threw  a  spell  on  my  niece,  and 
stopped  the  tongue  of  my  nephew's  chaplain;  I  do  be- 
lieve that  had  I  seen  either  of  them  alone,  my  wager  had 
been  won." 

"  Certainly;  therefore  I  took  good  care  to  go  with 
thee:  however,  thou  mayest  see  the  prior  alone,  if  thou 
wilt;  and  lo!  his  door  is  open.  I  will  stand  without  for 
five  minutes,  when  it  will  be  time  to  commence  our  jour- 
ney." 

It  was  the  poor  Baron's  last  chance :  and  he  entered  his 
brother's  room  more  for  the  five  minutes'  respite  than 
from  any  hope  of  success. 

Father  Ignatius,  the  prior,  was  absorbed  in  magic  cal- 
culations :  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  circle  of  skulls,  with 
no  garment  except  his  long  white  beard,  which  reached 
to  his  knees;  he  was  waving  a  silver  rod,  and  muttering 
imprecations  in  some  horrible  tongue. 

But  Sir  Rollo  came  forward  and  interrupted  his  in- 
cantation. "  I  am,"  said  he,  "  the  shade  of  thy  brotlier 
Roger  de  Rollo;  and  have  come,  from  pure  brotherly 
love,  to  warn  thee  of  thy  fate." 

"  Whence  camest  thou?  " 

"  From  the  abode  of  the  blessed  in  Paradise,"  replied 
Sir  Roger,  who  was  inspired  with  a  sudden  thought;  "  it 
was  but  five  minutes  ago  that  the  Patron  Saint  of  thy 
church  told  me  of  thy  danger,  and  of  thy  wicked  com- 
pact with  the  fiend.     '  Go,'  said  he,  '  to  thy  miserable 


280  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

brother,  and  tell  him  that  there  is  but  one  way  by  which 
he  may  escape  from  paying  the  awful  forfeit  of  his 
bond.'  " 

"  And  how  may  that  be?  "  said  the  prior;  "  the  false 
fiend  hath  deceived  me;  I  have  given  him  my  soul,  but 
have  received  no  worldly  benefit  in  return.  Brother! 
dear  brother!  how  may  I  escape?  " 

"  I  will  tell  thee.  As  soon  as  I  heard  the  voice  of 
blessed  St.  Mary  Lazarus"  (the  worthy  Earl  had,  at  a 
pinch,  coined  the  name  of  a  saint),  "  I  left  the  clouds, 
where,  with  other  angels,  I  was  seated,  and  sped  hither 
to  save  thee.  '  Thy  brother,'  said  the  Saint,  '  hath  but 
one  day  more  to  live,  when  he  will  become  for  all  eternity 
the  subject  of  Satan;  if  he  would  escape,  he  must  boldly 
break  his  bond,  by  saying  an  ave.'  " 

"  It  is  the  express  condition  of  the  agreement,"  said 
the  unhappy  monk,  "  I  must  say  no  prayer,  or  that  in- 
stant I  become  Satan's,  body  and  soul." 

"  It  is  the  express  condition  of  the  Saint,"  answered 
Roger,  fiercely:  "pray,  brother,  pray,  or  thou  art  lost 
for  ever." 

So  the  foolish  monk  knelt  down,  and  devoutly  sung 
out  an  ave.    "  Amen!  "  said  Sir  Roger,  devoutly. 

"Amen!"  said  Mercurius,  as,  suddenly  coming  be- 
hind, he  seized  Ignatius  by  his  long  beard,  and  flew  up 
with  him  to  the  top  of  the  church-steeple. 

The  monk  roared,  and  screamed,  and  swore  against  his 
brother;  but  it  was  of  no  avail:  Sir  Roger  smiled  kindly 
on  him,  and  said,  "  Do  not  fret,  brother;  it  must  have 
come  to  this  in  a  year  or  two." 

And  he  flew  alongside  of  Mercurius  to  the  steeple-top : 
hut  this  time  the  devil  had  not  his  tail  round  his  neck. 
"  I  will  let  thee  off  thy  bet,"  said  he  to  the  daemon;  for  he 
could  afford,  now,  to  be  generous. 


THE  DEVIL'S  WAGER  281 

"  I  believe,  my  lord,"  said  the  daemon,  politely,  "  that 
our  ways  separate  here."  Sir  Roger  sailed  gaily  up- 
wards; while  Mercurius  having  bound  the  miserable 
monk  faster  than  ever,  he  sunk  downwards  to  earth,  and 
perhaps  lower.  Ignatius  was  heard  roaring  and  scream- 
ing as  the  devil  dashed  him  against  the  iron  spikes  and 
buttresses  of  the  church. 

***** 

The  moral  of  this  story  will  be  given  in  the  second 
edition. 


MADAME    SAND   AND    THE    NEW 
APOCALYPSE 

I  DON'T  know  an  impression  more  curious  than  that 
which  is  formed  in  a  foreigner's  mind,  who  has  been 
absent  from  this  place  for  two  or  three  years,  returns  to 
it,  and  beholds  the  change  which  has  taken  place,  in  the 
meantime,  in  French  fashions  and  ways  of  thinking. 
Two  years  ago,  for  instance,  when  I  left  the  capital,  I 
left  the  young  gentlemen  of  France  with  their  hair 
brushed  en  toupet  in  front,  and  the  toes  of  their  boots 
round;  now  the  boot-toes  are  pointed,  and  the  hair 
combed  flat,  and,  parted  in  the  middle,  falls  in  ringlets 
on  the  fashionable  shoulders;  and,  in  like  manner,  with 
books  as  with  boots,  the  fashion  has  changed  consider- 
ably, and  it  is  not  a  little  curious  to  contrast  the  old 
modes  with  the  new.  Absurd  as  was  the  literary  dandy- 
ism of  those  days,  it  is  not  a  whit  less  absurd  now :  only 
the  manner  is  changed,  and  our  versatile  Frenchmen 
have  passed  from  one  caricature  to  another. 

The  revolution  may  be  called  a  caricature  of  freedom, 
as  the  empire  was  of  glory ;  and  what  they  borrow  from 
foreigners  undergoes  the  same  process.  They  take  top- 
boots  and  mackintoshes  from  across  the  water,  and  cari- 
cature our  fashions ;  they  read  a  little,  very  little,  Shak- 
speare,  and  caricature  our  poetry:  and  while  in  David's 
time  art  and  religion  were  only  a  caricature  of  Heathen- 
ism, now,  on  the  contrary,  these  two  commodities  are 

282 


MADAME   SAND  283 

imported  from  Germany ;  and  distorted  caricatures  orig- 
inally, are  still  farther  distorted  on  passing  the  fron- 
tier. 

I  trust  in  heaven  that  German  art  and  religion  will 
take  no  hold  in  our  country  (where  there  is  a  fund  of 
roast-beef  that  will  expel  any  such  humbug  in  the  end)  ; 
but  these  sprightly  Frenchmen  have  relished  the  mys- 
tical doctrines  mightily;  and  having  watched  the  Ger- 
mans, with  their  sanctified  looks,  and  quaint  imitations  of 
the  old  times,  and  mysterious  transcendental  talk,  are 
aping  many  of  their  fashions;  as  well  and  solemnly  as 
they  can:  not  very  solemnly,  God  wot;  for  I  think  one 
should  always  prepare  to  grin  when  a  Frenchman  looks 
particularly^  grave,  being  sure  that  there  is  something 
false  and  ridiculous  lurking  under  the  owl-like  solemnity. 

When  last  in  Paris,  we  were  in  the  midst  of  what  was 
called  a  Catholic  reaction.  Artists  talked  of  faith  in 
poems  and  pictures ;  churches  were  built  here  and  there ; 
old  missals  were  copied  and  purchased;  and  numberless 
portraits  of  saints,  with  as  much  gilding  about  them  as 
ever  was  used  in  the  fifteenth  century,  appeared  in 
churches,  ladies'  boudoirs,  and  picture-shops.  One  or 
two  fashionable  preachers  rose,  and  were  eagerly  fol- 
lowed ;  the  very  youth  of  the  schools  gave  up  their  pipes 
and  billiards  for  some  time,  and  flocked  in  crowds  to 
Notre  Dame,  to  sit  under  the  feet  of  Lacordaire.  I  went 
to  visit  the  church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  yesterday, 
which  was  finished  in  the  heat  of  this  Catholic  rage,  and 
was  not  a  little  struck  by  the  similarity  of  the  place  to 
the  worship  celebrated  in  it,  and  the  admirable  manner 
in  which  the  architect  has  caused  his  work  to  express  the 
public  feeling  of  the  moment.  It  is  a  pretty  little  bijou 
of  a  church:  it  is  supported  by  sham  marble  pillars;  it 


284  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

has  a  gaudy  ceiling  of  blue  and  gold,  which  will  look  very 
well  for  some  time ;  and  is  filled  with  gaudy  pictures  and 
carvings,  in  the  very  pink  of  the  mode.  The  congrega- 
tion did  not  offer  a  bad  illustration  of  the  present  state  of 
Catholic  reaction.  Two  or  three  stray  people  were  at 
prayers;  there  was  no  service;  a  few  countrymen  and 
idlers  were  staring  about  at  the  pictures ;  and  the  Swiss, 
the  paid  guardian  of  the  place,  was  comfortably  and  ap- 
propriately asleep  on  his  bench  at  the  door.  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  the  famous  reaction  is  over:  the  students 
have  taken  to  their  Sunday  pipes  and  billiards  again; 
and  one  or  two  cafes  have  been  established,  within  the 
last  year,  that  are  ten  times  handsomer  than  Notre  Dame 
de  Lorette. 

However,  if  the  immortal  Gorres  and  the  German 
mystics  have  had  their  day,  there  is  the  immortal  Gothe, 
and  the  Pantheists;  and  I  incline  to  think  that  the  fashion 
has  set  very  strongly  in  their  favour.  Voltaire  and  the 
Encyclopfedians  are  voted,  now,  harhares,  and  there  is 
no  term  of  reprobation  strong  enough  for  heartless 
Humes  and  Helvetiuses,  who  lived  but  to  destroy,  and 
who  only  thought  to  doubt.  Wretched  as  Voltaire's 
sneers  and  puns  are,  I  think  there  is  something  more 
manly  and  earnest  even  in  them,  than  in  the  present 
muddy  French  transcendentalism.  Pantheism  is  the 
word  now ;  one  and  all  have  begun  to  cprouver  the  besoin 
of  a  religious  sentiment ;  and  we  are  deluged  with  a  host 
of  gods  accordingly.  Monsieur  de  Balzac  feels  himself 
to  be  inspired ;  Victor  Hugo  is  a  god ;  Madame  Sand  is  a 
god ;  that  tawdry  man  of  genius,  Jules  Janin,  who  writes 
theatrical  reviews  for  the  Dehats,  has  divine  intimations ; 
and  there  is  scarce  a  beggarly,  beardless  scribbler  of 
poems  and  prose,  but  tells  you,  in  his  preface,  of  the 


French  Catholicism 


SKETCHED   IN  THE  CHURCH   OF 
N.   D.    DE   LOKETTS 


MADAME    SAND  285 

saintete  of  the  sacerdoce  litUraire;  or  a  dirty  student, 
sucking  tobacco  and  beer,  and  reeling  home  with  a  gri- 
sette  from  the  chaumiere,  who  is  not  convinced  of  the 
necessity  of  a  new  "  Messianism,"  and  will  hiccup,  to 
such  as  will  listen,  chapters  of  his  own  drunken  Apoca- 
lypse. Surely,  the  negatives  of  the  old  days  were  far 
less  dangerous  than  the  assertions  of  the  present ;  and  you 
may  fancy  what  a  religion  that  must  be,  which  has  such 
high  priests. 

There  is  no  reason  to  trouble  the  reader  with  details 
of  the  lives  of  many  of  these  prophets  and  expounders  of 
new  revelations.  Madame  Sand,  for  instance,  I  do  not 
know  personally,  and  can  only  speak  of  her  from  report. 
True  or  false,  the  history,  at  any  rate,  is  not  very  edify- 
ing; and  so  may  be  passed  over:  but,  as  a  certain  great 
philosopher  told  us,  in  very  humble  and  simple  words, 
that  we  are  not  to  expect  to  gather  grapes  from  thorns, 
or  figs  from  thistles,  we  may,  at  least,  demand,  in  all 
persons  assuming  the  character  of  moralist  or  philoso- 
pher— order,  soberness,  and  regularity  of  life;  for  we 
are  apt  to  distrust  the  intellect  that  we  fancy  can  be 
swayed  by  circumstance  or  passion;  and  we  know  how 
circumstance  and  passion  will  sway  the  intellect:  how 
mortified  vanity  will  form  excuses  for  itself;  and  how 
temper  turns  angrily  upon  conscience,  that  reproves  it. 
How  often  have  we  called  our  judge  our  enemy,  because 
he  has  given  sentence  against  us! — How  often  have  we 
called  the  right  wrong,  because  the  right  condemns  us! 
And  in  the  lives  of  many  of  the  bitter  foes  of  the  Chris- 
tian doctrine,  can  we  find  no  personal  reason  for  their 
hostility?  The  men  in  Athens  said  it  was  out  of  regard 
for  religion  that  they  murdered  Socrates;  but  we  have 
had  time,  since  then,  to  reconsider  the  verdict;  and  So- 


286  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

crates'  character  is  pretty  pure  now,  in  spite  of  the  sen- 
tence and  the  jury  of  those  days. 

The  Parisian  philosophers  will  attempt  to  explain  to 
you  the  changes  through  wliich  Madame  Sand's  mind 
has  passed, — the  initiatory  trials,  labours,  and  sufferings 
which  she  has  had  to  go  through, — before  she  reached 
her  present  happy  state  of  mental  illumination.  She 
teaches  her  wisdom  in  parables,  that  are,  mostly,  a  couple 
of  volumes  long ;  and  began,  first,  by  an  eloquent  attack 
on  marriage,  in  the  charming  novel  of  "  Indiana." 
"  Pity,"  cried  she,  "  for  the  poor  woman  who,  united 
to  a  being  whose  brute  force  makes  him  her  superior, 
should  venture  to  break  the  bondage  which  is  imposed  on 
her,  and  allow  her  heart  to  be  free." 

In  support  of  this  claim  of  pity,  she  writes  two  vol- 
umes of  the  most  exquisite  prose.  What  a  tender,  suf- 
fering creature  is  Indiana ;  how  little  her  husband  appre- 
ciates that  gentleness  which  he  is  crushing  by  his 
tyranny  and  brutal  scorn;  how  natural  it  is  that,  in  the 
absence  of  his  sympathy,  she,  poor  clinging  confiding 
creature,  should  seek  elsewhere  for  shelter ;  how  cautious 
should  we  be,  to  call  criminal— to  visit  with  too  heavy 
a  censure— an  act  which  is  one  of  the  natural  impulses 
of  a  tender  heart,  that  seeks  but  for  a  worthy  object 
of  love.  But  why  attempt  to  tell  the  tale  of  beautiful 
Indiana?  Madame  Sand  has  written  it  so  well,  that  not 
the  hardest-hearted  husband  in  Christendom  can  fail  to 
be  touched  by  her  sorrows,  though  he  may  refuse  to 
listen  to  her  argument.  Let  us  grant,  for  argument's 
sake,  that  the  laws  of  marriage,  especially  the  French 
laws  of  marriage,  press  very  cruelly  upon  unfortunate 
women. 

But  if  one  wants  to  have  a  question  of  this,  or  any 


MADAME    SAND  287 

nature,  honestly  argued,  it  is  better,  surely,  to  apply  to 
an  indifferent  person  for  an  umpire.  For  instance,  the 
stealing  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  or  snuff-boxes  may  or 
may  not  be  vicious;  but  if  we,  who  have  not  the  wit,  or 
will  not  take  the  trouble  to  decide  the  question  our- 
selves, want  to  hear  the  real  rights  of  the  matter,  we 
should  not,  surely,  apply  to  a  pickpocket  to  know  what 
he  thought  on  the  point.  It  might  naturally  be  presumed 
that  he  would  be  rather  a  prejudiced  person — particu- 
larly as  his  reasoning,  if  successful,  might  get  him  out 
of  gaol.  This  is  a  homely  illustration,  no  doubt ;  all  we 
would  urge  by  it  is,  that  Madame  Sand  having,  accord- 
ing to  the  French  newspapers,  had  a  stern  husband,  and 
also  having,  according  to  the  newspapers,  sought  "  sym- 
pathy" elsewhere,  her  arguments  may  be  considered  to  be 
somewhat  partial,  and  received  with  some  little  caution. 

And  tell  us  who  have  been  the  social  reformers?— the 
haters,  that  is,  of  the  present  system,  according  to  which 
we  live,  love,  marry,  have  children,  educate  them,  and 
endow  them— are  they  pure  themselves?  I  do  believe 
not  one;  and  directly  a  man  begins  to  quarrel  with  the 
world  and  its  ways,  and  to  lift  up,  as  he  calls  it,  the  voice 
of  his  despair,  and  preach  passionately  to  mankind  about 
this  tyranny  of  faith,  customs,  laws ;  if  we  examine  what 
the  personal  character  of  the  preacher  is,  we  begin  pretty 
clearly  to  understand  the  value  of  the  doctrine.  Any  one 
can  see  why  Rousseau  should  be  such  a  whimpering  re- 
former, and  Byron  such  a  free  and  easy  misanthropist, 
and  why  our  accomplished  Madame  Sand,  who  has  a 
genius  and  eloquence  inferior  to  neither,  should  take  the 
present  condition  of  mankind  (French -kind)  so  much 
to  heart,  and  labour  so  hotly  to  set  it  right. 

After  "  Indiana  "   (which,  we  presume,  contains  the 


288  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

lady's  notions  upon  wives  and  husbands)  came  "  Valen- 
tine," which  may  be  said  to  exhibit  her  doctrine,  in  regard 
of  young  men  and  maidens,  to  whom  the  author  would 
accord,  as  we  fancy,  the  same  tender  license.  "  Valen- 
tine "  was  followed  by  "  Lelia,"  a  wonderful  book  in- 
deed, gorgeous  in  eloquence,  and  rich  in  magnificent 
poetry:  a  regular  topsyturvyfication  of  morality,  a 
thieves'  and  prostitutes'  apotheosis.  This  book  has  re- 
ceived some  late  enlargements  and  emendations  by  the 
writer;  it  contains  her  notions  on  morals,  which,  as  we 
have  said,  are  so  peculiar,  that,  alas!  they  can  only  be 
mentioned  here,  not  particularized:  but  of  "  Spiridion  " 
we  may  write  a  few  pages,  as  it  is  her  religious  manifesto. 

In  this  work,  the  lady  asserts  her  pantheistical  doc- 
trine, and  openly  attacks  the  received  Christian  creed. 
She  declares  it  to  be  useless  now,  and  unfitted  to  the 
exigencies  and  the  degree  of  culture  of  the  actual  world ; 
and,  though  it  would  be  hardly  worth  while  to  combat 
her  opinions  in  due  form,  it  is,  at  least,  worth  while  to 
notice  them,  not  merely  from  the  extraordinary  elo- 
quence and  genius  of  the  woman  herself,  but  because  they 
express  the  opinions  of  a  great  number  of  people  besides: 
for  she  not  only  produces  her  own  thoughts,  but  imitates 
those  of  others  very  eagerly;  and  one  finds  in  her  writ- 
ings so  much  similarity  with  others,  or,  in  others,  so 
much  resemblance  to  her,  that  the  book  before  us  may 
pass  for  the  expression  of  the  sentiments  of  a  certain 
French  party. 

"  Dieu  est  mort,"  says  another  writer  of  the  same 
class,  and  of  great  genius  too. — "  Dieu  est  mort,"  writes 
Mr.  Henry  Heine,  speaking  of  the  Christian  God ;  and 
he  adds,  in  a  daring  figure  of  speech,—"  N'entendez  vous 
pas  sonner  la  Clochette?— on  porte  les  sacremens  a  un 


MADAME    SAND  289 

Dieu  qui  se  meurt!  "  Another  of  the  pantheist  poetical 
philosophers,  ]Mr.  Edgar  Quinet,  has  a  poem,  in  which 
Christ  and  the  Virgin  Mary  are  made  to  die  similarly,  and 
the  former  is  classed  with  Prometheus.  This  book  of 
"  Spiridion  "  is  a  continuation  of  the  theme,  and  perhaps 
you  will  listen  to  some  of  the  author's  expositions  of  it. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  the  controversialists  of  the 
present  day  have  an  eminent  advantage  over  their  prede- 
cessors in  the  days  of  folios;  it  required  some  learning 
then  to  write  a  book,  and  some  time,  at  least — for  the 
very  labour  of  writing  out  a  thousand  such  vast  pages 
would  demand  a  considerable  period.  But  now,  in  the 
age  of  duodecimos,  the  system  is  reformed  altogether: 
a  male  or  female  controversialist  draws  upon  his  imag- 
ination, and  not  his  learning;  makes  a  story  instead  of 
an  argument,  and,  in  the  course  of  150  pages  (where  the 
preacher  has  it  all  his  own  way),  will  prove  or  disprove 
you  anything.  And,  to  our  shame  be  it  said,  we  Protes- 
tants have  set  the  example  of  this  kind  of  prosel}i:ism 
— those  detestable  mixtures  of  truth,  lies,  false  senti- 
ment, false  reasoning,  bad  grammar,  correct  and  genuine 
philanthropy  and  piety— I  mean  our  religious  tracts, 
which  any  woman  or  man,  be  he  ever  so  silly,  can  take 
upon  himself  to  write,  and  sell  for  a  penny,  as  if  religious 
instruction  were  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.  We, 
I  say,  have  set  the  example  in  this  kind  of  composition, 
and  all  the  sects  of  the  earth  will,  doubtless,  speedily  fol- 
low it.  I  can  point  you  out  blasphemies  in  famous  pious 
tracts  that  are  as  dreadful  as  those  above  mentioned; 
but  this  is  no  place  for  such  discussions,  and  we  had 
better  return  to  Madame  Sand.  As  Mrs.  Sherwood 
expounds,  by  means  of  many  touching  histories  and  anec- 
dotes of  little  boys  and  girls,  her  notions  of  church  his- 


290  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

toiy,  church  catechism,  church  doctrine; — as  the  author 
of  "  Father  Clement,  a  Roman  CathoHc  Story,"  demol- 
ishes the  stately  structure  of  eighteen  centuries,  the 
mighty  and  beautiful  Roman  Catholic  faith,  in  whose 
bosom  repose  so  many  saints  and  sages, — by  the  means 
of  a  three-and-sixpenny  duodecimo  volume,  which  tum- 
bles over  the  vast  fabric,  as  David's  pebble  stone  did 
Goliath; — as,  again,  the  Roman  Catholic  author  of 
"  Geraldine "  falls  foul  of  Luther  and  Calvin,  and 
drowns  the  awful  echoes  of  their  tremendous  protest  by 
the  sounds  of  her  little  half-crown  trumpet:  in  like 
manner,  by  means  of  pretty  sentimental  tales,  and  cheap 
apologues,  Mrs.  Sand  proclaims  her  ti*uth — that  we  need 
a  new  Messiah,  and  that  the  Christian  religion  is  no 
more!  O  awful,  awful  name  of  God!  Light  unbear- 
able !  Mystery  unfathomable !  Vastness  immeasurable ! 
— Who  are  these  who  come  forward  to  explain  the  mys- 
tery, and  gaze  unblinking  into  the  depths  of  the  light, 
and  measure  the  immeasurable  vastness  to  a  hair?  O 
name,  that  God's  people  of  old  did  fear  to  utter!  O 
light,  that  God's  prophet  would  have  perished  had  he 
seen!  Who  are  these  that  are  now  so  familiar  with  it? 
— Women,  truly;  for  the  most  part  weak  women — weak 
in  intellect,  weak  mayhap  in  spelling  and  grammar,  but 
marvellously  strong  in  faith: — women,  who  step  down 
to  the  people  with  stately  step  and  voice  of  authority, 
and  deliver  their  twopenny  tablets,  as  if  there  were  some 
Divine  authority  for  the  wretched  nonsense  recorded 
there ! 

With  regard  to  the  spelling  and  grammar,  our  Paris- 
ian Pythoness  stands,  in  the  goodly  fellowship,  remark- 
able. Her  style  is  a  noble,  and,  as  far  as  a  foreigner  can 
judge,  a  strange  tongue,  beautifully  rich  and  pure.    She 


MADAME    SAND  291 

has  a  very  exuberant  imagination,  and,  with  it,  a  very 
chaste  style  of  expression.  She  never  scarcely  indulges 
in  declamation,  as  other  modern  prophets  do,  and  yet 
her  sentences  are  exquisitely  melodious  and  full.  She 
seldom  runs  a  thought  to  death  (after  the  manner  of 
some  prophets,  who,  when  they  catch  a  little  one,  toy  with 
it  until  they  kill  it) ,  but  she  leaves  you  at  the  end  of  one 
of  her  brief,  rich,  melancholy  sentences,  with  plenty  of 
food  for  future  cogitation.  I  can't  express  to  you  the 
charm  of  them ;  they  seem  to  me  like  the  sound  of  country 
bells— provoking  I  don't  know  what  vein  of  musing  and 
meditation,  and  falling  sweetly  and  sadly  on  the  ear. 

This  wonderful  power  of  language  must  have  been 
felt  by  most  people  who  read  Madame  Sand's  first  books, 
"Valentine"  and  "Indiana:"  in  "  Spiridion "  it  is 
gi'eater,  I  think,  than  ever;  and  for  those  who  are  not 
afraid  of  the  matter  of  the  novel,  the  manner  will  be 
found  most  delightful.  The  author's  intention,  I  pre- 
sume, is  to  describe,  in  a  parable,  her  notions  of  the 
downfall  of  the  Catholic  church;  and,  indeed,  of  the 
whole  Christian  scheme :  she  places  her  hero  in  a  monas- 
tery in  Italy,  where,  among  the  characters  about  him,  and 
the  events  which  occur,  the  particular  tenets  of  Madame 
Dudevant's  doctrine  are  not  inaptly  laid  down.  Inno- 
cent, faithful,  tender-hearted,  a  young  monk,  by  name 
Angel,  finds  himself,  when  he  has  pronounced  his  vows, 
an  object  of  aversion  and  hatred  to  the  godly  men  whose 
lives  he  so  much  respects  and  whose  love  he  would  make 
any  sacrifice  to  win.  After  enduring  much,  he  flings 
himself  at  the  feet  of  his  confessor,  and  begs  for  his 
sympathy  and  counsel;  but  the  confessor  spurns  him 
away,  and  accuses  him,  fiercely,  of  some  unknow^n  and 
terrible  crime— bids  him  never  return  to  the  confessional 


292  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

until  contrition  has  touched  his  heart,  and  the  stains 
which  sully  his  spirit  are,  by  sincere  repentance,  washed 
away. 

"  Thus  speaking,"  says  Angel,  "  Father  Hegesippus 
tore  away  his  robe,  which  I  was  holding  in  my  supplicat- 
ing hands.  In  a  sort  of  wildness  I  still  grasped  it 
tighter ;  he  pushed  me  fiercely  from  him,  and  I  fell  with 
my  face  towards  the  ground.  He  quitted  me,  closing 
violently  after  him  the  door  of  the  sacristy,  in  which  this 
scene  had  passed.  I  was  left  alone  in  the  darkness. 
Either  from  the  violence  of  my  fall,  or  the  excess  of  my 
grief,  a  vein  had  burst  in  my  throat,  and  a  hsemorrhage 
ensued.  I  had  not  the  force  to  rise;  I  felt  my  senses 
rapidly  sinking,  and,  presently,  I  lay  stretched  on  the 
pavement,  unconscious,  and  bathed  in  my  blood." 

[Now  the  wonderful  part  of  the  story  begins.] 

"  I  know  not  how  much  time  I  passed  in  this  way. 
As  I  came  to  myself  I  felt  an  agreeable  coolness.  It 
seemed  as  if  some  harmonious  air  was  playing  round 
about  me,  stirring  gently  in  my  hair,  and  drying  the 
drops  of  perspiration  on  my  brow.  It  seemed  to  ap- 
proach, and  then  again  to  withdraw,  breathing  now  softly 
and  sweetly  in  the  distance,  and  now  returning,  as  if  to 
give  me  strength  and  courage  to  rise. 

"  I  would  not,  however,  do  so  as  yet ;  for  I  felt  myself, 
as  I  lay,  under  the  influence  of  a  pleasure  quite  new  to 
me ;  and  listened,  in  a  kind  of  peaceful  aberration,  to  the 
gentle  murmurs  of  the  summer  wind,  as  it  breathed  on 
me  through  the  closed  window-blinds  above  me.  Then 
I  fancied  I  heard  a  voice  that  spoke  to  me  from  the 
end  of  the  sacristy:  it  whispered  so  low  that  I  could 
not  catch  the  words.  I  remained  motionless,  and  gave 
it  mv  whole  attention.    At  last  I  heard,  distinctly,  the 


MADAME    SAND  293 

following  sentence:— '/y^j/ni  of  Truth,  raise  up  these  vic- 
tims of  ignorance  and  imposture.'  '  Father  Hegesip- 
pus,'  said  I,  in  a  weak  voice, '  is  that  you  who  are  return- 
ing to  me? '  But  no  one  answered.  I  lifted  myself  on  my 
hands  and  knees,  I  listened  again,  but  I  heard  nothing. 
I  got  up  completely,  and  looked  about  me :  I  had  fallen 
so  near  to  the  only  door  in  this  little  room,  that  none, 
after  the  departure  of  the  confessor,  could  have  entered 
it  without  passing  over  me;  besides,  the  door  was  shut, 
and  only  opened  from  the  inside  by  a  strong  lock  of  the 
ancient  shape.  I  touched  it,  and  assured  myself  that  it 
was  closed.  I  was  seized  with  terror,  and,  for  some  mo- 
ments, did  not  dare  to  move.  Leaning  against  the  door, 
I  looked  round,  and  endeavoured  to  see  into  the  gloom 
in  which  the  angles  of  the  room  were  enveloped.  A  pale 
light,  which  came  from  an  upper  window,  half  closed, 
was  seen  to  be  trembling  in  the  midst  of  the  apartment. 
The  wind  beat  the  shutter  to  and  fro,  and  enlarged  or 
diminished  the  space  through  which  the  light  issued.  The 
objects  which  were  in  this  half  light— the  praying-desk, 
surmounted  by  its  skull— a  few  books  lying  on  the 
benches— a  surplice  hanging  against  the  wall— seemed 
to  move  with  the  shadow  of  the  foliage  that  the  air  agi- 
tated behind  the  window.  When  I  thought  I  was  alone, 
I  felt  ashamed  of  my  former  timidity ;  I  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  and  was  about  to  move  forward  in  order 
to  open  the  shutter  altogether,  but  a  deep  sigh  came 
from  the  praying-desk,  and  kept  me  nailed  to  my  place. 
And  yet  I  saw  the  desk  distinctly  enough  to  be  sure 
that  no  person  was  near  it.  Then  I  had  an  idea  which 
gave  me  courage.  Some  person,  I  thought,  is  behind  the 
shutter,  and  has  been  saying  his  prayers  outside  with- 
out thinking  of  me.    But  who  would  be  so  bold  as  to 


294         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

express  such  wishes  and  utter  such  a  prayer  as  I  had  just 
heard  ? 

"  Curiosity,  the  only  passion  and  amusement  permitted 
in  a  cloister,  now  entirely  possessed  me,  and  I  advanced 
towards  the  window.  But  I  had  not  made  a  step  when 
a  black  shadow,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  detaching  itself  from 
the  praying-desk,  traversed  the  room,  directing  itself 
towards  the  window,  and  passed  swiftly  by  me.  The 
movement  was  so  rapid  that  I  had  not  time  to  avoid  what 
seemed  a  body  advancing  towards  me,  and  my  fright 
was  so  great,  that  I  thought  I  should  faint  a  second  time. 
But  I  felt  nothing,  and,  as  if  the  shadow  had  passed 
through  me,  I  saw  it  suddenly  disappear  to  my  left. 

"  I  rushed  to  the  window,  I  pushed  back  the  blind  with 
precipitation,  and  looked  round  the  sacristy :  I  was  there, 
entirely  alone.  I  looked  into  the  garden— it  was  de- 
serted, and  the  mid-day  wind  was  wandering  among  the 
flowers.  I  took  courage,  I  examined  all  the  corners 
of  the  room ;  I  looked  behind  the  praying-desk,  which  was 
very  large,  and  I  shook  all  the  sacerdotal  vestments  which 
were  hanging  on  the  walls ;  everything  was  in  its  natural 
condition,  and  could  give  me  no  explanation  of  what  had 
just  occurred.  The  sight  of  all  the  blood  I  had  lost  led 
me  to  fancy  that  my  brain  had,  probably,  been  weakened 
by  the  hsemorrhage,  and  that  I  had  been  a  prey  to  some 
delusion.  I  retired  to  my  cell,  and  remained  shut  up 
there  until  the  next  day." 

I  don't  know  whether  the  reader  has  been  as  much 
struck  with  the  above  mysterious  scene  as  the  writer  has ; 
but  the  fancy  of  it  strikes  me  as  very  fine ;  and  the  natural 
supernaturalness  is  kept  up  in  the  best  style.  The  shut- 
ter swaying  to  and  fro,  the  fitful  light  appearing  over 
the  furniture  of  the  room,  and  giving  it  an  air  of  strange 


MADAME   SAND  295 

motion — the  awful  shadow  which  passed  through  the 
body  of  the  timid  young  novice — are  surely  very  finely 
painted.  "  I  rushed  to  the  shutter,  and  flung  it  back: 
there  was  no  one  in  the  sacristy.  I  looked  into  the  gar- 
den ;  it  was  deserted,  and  the  mid-day  wind  was  roaming 
among  the  flowers."  The  dreariness  is  wonderfully  de- 
scribed: only  the  poor  pale  boy  looking  eagerly  out 
from  the  window  of  the  sacristy,  and  the  hot  mid-day 
wind  walking  in  the  solitary  garden.  How  skilfully 
is  each  of  these  little  strokes  dashed  in,  and  how  well  do 
all  together  combine  to  make  a  picture!  But  we  must 
have  a  little  more  about  Spiridion's  wonderful  visitant. 

r^  'l>  rlv  vf^ 

*'  As  I  entered  into  the  garden,  I  stepped  a  little  on 
one  side,  to  make  way  for  a  person  whom  I  saw  before 
me.  He  was  a  young  man  of  surprising  beauty,  and 
attired  in  a  foreign  costume.  Although  dressed  in  the 
large  black  robe  which  the  superiors  of  our  order  wear, 
he  had,  underneath,  a  short  jacket  of  fine  cloth,  fastened 
round  the  waist  by  a  leathern  belt,  and  a  buckle  of  silver, 
after  the  manner  of  the  old  German  students.  Like 
them,  he  wore,  instead  of  the  sandals  of  our  monks,  short 
tight  boots ;  and  over  the  collar  of  his  shirt,  which  fell  on 
his  shoulders,  and  was  as  white  as  snow,  hung,  in  rich 
golden  curls,  the  most  beautiful  hair  I  ever  saw.  He  was 
tall,  and  his  elegant  posture  seemed  to  reveal  to  me  that 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  commanding.  With  much  respect, 
and  yet  uncertain,  I  half  saluted  him.  He  did  not  re- 
turn my  salute;  but  he  smiled  on  me  with  so  benevolent 
an  air,  and  at  the  same  time  his  eyes,  severe  and  blue, 
looked  towards  me  with  an  expression  of  such  compas- 
sionate tenderness,  that  his  features  have  never  since  then 
passed  away  from  my  recollection.    I  stopped,  hoping 


206         THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

he  would  speak  to  me,  and  persuading  myself,  from  the 
majesty  of  his  aspect,  that  he  had  the  power  to  protect 
me ;  but  the  monk,  who  was  walking  behind  me,  and  who 
did  not  seem  to  remark  him  in  the  least,  forced  him  bru- 
tally to  step  aside  from^  the  walk,  and  pushed  me  so 
rudely  as  almost  to  cause  me  to  fall.  Not  wishing  to  en- 
gage in  a  quarrel  with  this  coarse  monk,  I  moved  away ; 
but,  after  having  taken  a  few  steps  in  the  garden,  I 
looked  back,  and  saw  the  unknown  still  gazing  on  me 
with  looks  of  the  tenderest  solicitude.  The  sun  shone 
full  upon  him,  and  made  his  hair  look  radiant.  He 
sighed,  and  lifted  his  fine  eyes  to  heaven,  as  if  to  invoke 
its  justice  in  my  favour,  and  to  call  it  to  bear  witness  to 
my  misery ;  he  turned  slowly  towards  the  sanctuary,  en- 
tered into  the  quire,  and  was  lost,  presently,  in  the  shade. 
I  longed  to  return,  spite  of  the  monk,  to  follow  this 
noble  stranger,  and  to  tell  him  my  afflictions ;  but  who  was 
he,  that  I  imagined  he  would  listen  to  them,  and  cause 
them  to  cease?  I  felt,  even  while  his  softness  drew  me 
towards  him,  that  he  still  inspired  me  with  a  kind  of 
fear ;  for  I  saw  in  his  physiognomy  as  much  austerity  as 

sweetness." 

***** 

Who  was  he?— we  shall  see  that.  He  was  somebody 
very  mysterious  indeed;  but  our  author  has  taken  care, 
after  the  manner  of  her  sex,  to  make  a  very  pretty  fel- 
low of  him,  and  to  dress  him  in  the  most  becoming  cos- 
tumes possible. 

***** 

The  individual  in  tight  boots  and  a  rolling  collar,  with 
the  copious  golden  locks,  and  the  solemn  blue  eyes,  who 
had  just  gazed  on  Spiridion,  and  inspired  him  with  such 
a  feeling  of  tender  awe,  is  a  much  more  important  per- 


MADAME  SAND  297 

sonage  than  the  reader  might  suppose  at  first  sight.  This 
beautiful,  mysterious,  dandy  ghost,  whose  costume,  with 
a  true  woman's  coquetry,  Madame  Dudevant  has  so  re- 
joiced to  describe — is  her  rehgious  type,  a  mystical  repre- 
sentation of  Faith  struggling  up  towards  Truth,  through 
superstition,  doubt,  fear,  reason, — in  tight  inexpressibles, 
with  "a  belt  such  as  is  worn  by  the  old  German  students." 
You  will  pardon  me  for  treating  such  an  awful  person 
as  this  somewhat  lightly;  but  there  is  always,  I  think, 
such  a  dash  of  the  ridiculous  in  the  French  sublime,  that 
the  critic  should  try  and  do  justice  to  both,  or  he  may  fail 
in  giving  a  fair  account  of  either.  This  character  of 
Hebronius,  the  type  of  Mrs.  Sand's  convictions — if  con- 
victions they  may  be  called — or,  at  least,  the  allegory 
under  which  her  doubts  are  represented,  is,  in  parts,  very 
finel}^  drawn;  contains  many  passages  of  truth,  very 
deep  and  touching,  by  the  side  of  others  so  entirely  ab- 
surd and  unreasonable,  that  the  reader's  feelings  are  con- 
tinually swaying  between  admiration  and  something  very 
like  contempt — always  in  a  kind  of  wonder  at  the  strange 
mixture  before  him.    But  let  us  hear  Madame  Sand: — 

"  Peter  Hebronius,"  says  our  author,  "  was  not  origi- 
nally so  named.  His  real  name  was  Samuel.  He  was  a 
Jew,  and  born  in  a  little  village  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Innspriick.  His  family,  which  possessed  a  consider- 
able fortune,  left  him,  in  his  early  youth,  completely 
free  to  his  own  pursuits.  From  infancy  he  had  shown 
that  these  were  serious.  He  loved  to  be  alone ;  and  passed 
his  days,  and  sometimes  his  nights,  wandering  among  the 
mountains  and  valleys  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  birth- 
place. He  would  often  sit  by  the  brink  of  torrents,  lis- 
tening to  the  voice  of  their  waters,  and  endeavouring  to 
penetrate  the  meaning  which  Nature  had  hidden  in  those 


208         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

sounds.  As  he  advanced  in  years,  his  inquiries  became 
more  curious  and  more  grave.  It  was  necessary  that  he 
should  receive  a  soHd  education,  and  his  parents  sent  him 
to  study  in  the  German  universities.  Luther  had  been 
dead  only  a  century,  and  his  words  and  his  memory 
still  lived  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  disciples.  The  new 
faith  was  strengthening  the  conquests  it  had  made;  the 
Reformers  were  as  ardent  as  in  the  first  days,  but  their 
ardour  was  more  enlightened  and  more  measured.  Pros- 
elytism  was  still  carried  on  with  zeal,  and  new  converts 
were  made  every  day.  In  listening  to  the  morality  and 
to  the  dogmas  which  Lutheranism  had  taken  from 
Catholicism,  Samuel  was  filled  with  admiration.  His 
bold  and  sincere  spirit  instantly  compared  the  doctrines 
which  were  now  submitted  to  him,  with  those  in  the 
belief  of  which  he  had  been  bred;  and,  enlightened  by 
the  comparison,  was  not  slow  to  acknowledge  the  in- 
feriority of  Judaism.  He  said  to  himself,  that  a  religion 
made  for  a  single  people,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others, 
— which  only  offered  a  barbarous  justice  for  rule  of 
conduct, — which  neither  rendered  the  present  intelligible 
nor  satisfactory,  and  left  the  future  uncertain, — could 
not  be  that  of  noble  souls  and  lofty  intellects ;  and  that  he 
could  not  be  the  God  of  truth  who  had  dictated,  in  the 
midst  of  thunder,  his  vacillating  will,  and  had  called  to 
the  performance  of  his  narrow  wishes  the  slaves  of  a 
vulgar  terror.  Always  conversant  with  himself,  Samuel, 
who  had  spoken  what  he  thought,  now  performed  what 
he  had  spoken ;  and,  a  year  after  his  arrival  in  Germany, 
solemnly  abjured  Judaism,  and  entered  into  the  bosom  of 
the  reformed  Church.  As  he  did  not  wish  to  do  things  by 
halves,  and  desired  as  much  as  was  in  him  to  put  off  the 
old  man  and  lead  a  new  life,  he  changed  his  name  of  Sam- 


MADAME  SAND  299 

uel  to  that  of  Peter.  Some  time  passed,  during  which  he 
strengthened  and  instructed  himself  in  his  new  rehgion. 
Very  soon  he  arrived  at  the  point  of  searching  for  objec- 
tions to  refute,  and  adversaries  to  overthrow.  Bold  and 
enterprising,  he  went  at  once  to  the  strongest,  and  Bos- 
suet  was  the  first  Catholic  author  that  he  set  himself  to 
read.  He  commenced  with  a  kind  of  disdain ;  believing 
that  the  faith  which  he  had  just  embraced  contained  the 
pure  truth,  he  despised  all  the  attacks  which  could  be 
made  against  it,  and  laughed  already  at  the  irresistible 
arguments  which  he  was  to  find  in  the  works  of  the  Eagle 
of  Meaux.  But  his  mistrust  and  irony  soon  gave  place 
to  wonder  first,  and  then  to  admiration :  he  thought  that 
the  cause  pleaded  by  such  an  advocate  must,  at  least,  be 
respectable;  and,  by  a  natural  transition,  came  to  think 
that  great  geniuses  would  only  devote  themselves  to  that 
which  was  great.  He  then  studied  Catholicism  with  the 
same  ardour  and  impartiality  which  he  had  bestowed  on 
Lutheranism.  He  went  into  France  to  gain  instruction 
from  the  professors  of  the  Mother  Church,  as  he  had 
from  the  Doctors  of  the  reformed  creed  in  Germany. 
He  saw  Arnauld,  Fenelon,  that  second  Gregory  of 
Nazianzen,  and  Bossuet  himself.  Guided  by  these  mas- 
ters, whose  virtues  made  him  appreciate  their  talents  the 
more,  he  rapidly  penetrated  to  the  depth  of  the  mysteries 
of  the  Catholic  doctrine  and  morality.  He  found,  in 
this  religion,  all  that  had  for  him  constituted  the  gran- 
deur and  beauty  of  Protestantism,— the  dogmas  of  the 
Unity  and  Eternity  of  God,  which  the  two  religions  had 
borrowed  from  Judaism;  and,  what  seemed  the  natural 
consequence  of  the  last  doctrine— a  doctrine,  however,  to 
which  the  Jews  had  not  arrived— the  doctrine  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul ;  free  will  in  this  life ;  in  the  next, 


300         THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

recompense  for  the  good,  and  punishment  for  the  evil. 
He  found,  more  pure,  perhaps,  and  more  elevated  in 
Catholicism  than  in  Protestantism,  that  sublime  morality 
which  preaches  equality  to  man,  fraternity,  love,  charity, 
renouncement  of  self,  devotion  to  your  neighbour: 
Catholicism,  in  a  word,  seemed  to  possess  that  vast 
formula,  and  that  vigorous  unity,  which  Lutheranism 
wanted.  The  latter  had,  indeed,  in  its  favour,  the  liberty 
of  inquiry,  which  is  also  a  want  of  the  human  mind; 
and  had  proclaimed  the  authority  of  individual  reason: 
but  it  had  so  lost  that  which  is  the  necessary  basis  and 
vital  condition  of  all  revealed  religion— the  principle  of 
infallibility;  because  nothing  can  live  except  in  virtue 
of  the  laws  that  presided  at  its  birth ;  and,  in  consequence, 
one  revelation  cannot  be  continued  and  confirmed  with- 
out another.  Now,  infallibility  is  nothing  but  revelation 
continued  by  God,  or  the  Word,  in  the  person  of  his 

vicars. 

***** 

"  At  last,  after  much  reflection,  Hebronius  acknow- 
ledged himself  entirely  and  sincerely  convinced,  and  re- 
ceived baptism  from  the  hands  of  Bossuet.  He  added 
the  name  of  Spiridion  to  that  of  Peter,  to  signify  that 
he  had  been  twice  enlightened  by  the  Spirit.  Resolved 
thenceforward  to  consecrate  his  life  to  the  worship  of  the 
new  God  who  had  called  him  to  Him,  and  to  the  study  of 
His  doctrines,  he  passed  into  Italy,  and,  with  the  aid  of  a 
large  fortune,  which  one  of  his  uncles,  a  Catholic  like 
himself,  had  left  to  him,  he  built  this  convent,  where  we 
now  are." 

*,*^  A  jj^  jjle, 

•I*  ^1%  ^^*  ^1^ 

A  friend  of  mine,  who  has  just  come  from  Italy,  says 
that  he  has  there  left  Messrs.  Sp— r,  P— 1,  and  W. 


MADAJNIE    SAXD  301 

Dr — d,  who  were  the  hghts  of  the  great  church  in  New- 
man Street,  who  were  themselves  apostles,  and  declared 
and  believed  that  every  word  of  nonsense  which  fell 
from  their  lips  was  a  direct  spiritual  intervention.  These 
gentlemen  have  become  Puseyites  already,  and  are,  my 
friend  states,  in  the  high  way  to  Catholicism.  JNladame 
Sand  herself  was  a  Catholic  some  time  since:  having 

been  converted  to  that  faith  along  with  M.   N , 

of  the  Academy  of  Music ;  JNIr.  L ,  the  pianoforte 

player;  and  one  or  two  other  chosen  individuals,  by  the 

famous  Abbe  de  la  M .     Abbe  de  la  ]M (so 

told  me,  in  the  Diligence,  a  priest,  who  read  his  breviary 
and  gossiped  alternately  very  curiously  and  pleasantly) 
is  himself  an  dme  perdue:  the  man  spoke  of  his  brother 
clergyman  M^ith  actual  horror;  and  it  certainly  appears 
that  the  Abbe's  works  of  conversion  have  not  prospered ; 
for  Madame  Sand,  having  brought  her  hero  (and  her- 
self, as  we  ma}^  presume)  to  the  point  of  Catholicism, 
proceeds  directly  to  dispose  of  that  as  she  has  done  of 
Judaism  and  Protestantism,  and  will  not  leave,  of  the 
whole  fabric  of  Christianity,  a  single  stone  standing. 

I  think  the  fate  of  our  English  Newman  Street  apos- 
tles, and  of  M.  de  la  M ,  the  mad  priest,  and  his 

congregation  of  mad  converts,  should  be  a  warning  to 
such  of  us  as  are  inclined  to  dabble  in  religious  specula- 
tions; for,  in  them,  as  in  all  others,  our  fliglity  brains 
soon  lose  themselves,  and  we  find  our  reason  speedily  ly- 
ing prostrated  at  the  mercy  of  our  passions ;  and  I  think 
that  ^ladame  Sand's  novel  of  Spiridion  may  do  a  vast 
deal  of  good,  and  bears  a  good  moral  with  it ;  though  not 
such  an  one,  perhaps,  as  our  fair  philosopher  intended. 
For  anything  he  learned,  Samuel-Peter-Spiridion-He- 
bronius  might  have  remained  a  Jew  from  the  beginning 


302  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

to  the  end.  Wherefore  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  set  up  new 
faiths?  Wherefore,  Madame  Sand,  try  and  be  so  pre- 
ternaturally  wise?  Wherefore  be  so  eagei  to  jump  out 
of  one  rehgion,  for  the  purpose  of  jumping  into  an- 
other? See  what  good  this  philosophical  f riskiness  has 
done  you,  and  on  what  sort  of  ground  you  are  come  at 
last.  You  are  so  wonderfully  sagacious,  that  you  floun- 
der in  mud  at  every  step;  so  amazingly  clear-sighted, 
that  your  eyes  cannot  see  an  inch  before  you,  having 
put  out,  with  that  extinguishing  genius  of  yours,  every 
one  of  the  lights  that  are  sufficient  for  the  conduct  of 
common  men.  And  for  what?  Let  our  friend  Spiridion 
speak  for  himself.  After  setting  up  his  convent,  and 
filling  it  with  monks,  who  entertain  an  immense  respect 
for  his  wealth  and  genius.  Father  Hebronius,  unani- 
mously elected  prior,  gives  himself  up  to  further  studies, 
and  leaves  his  monks  to  themselves.  Industrious  and 
sober  as  they  were,  originally,  they  grow  quickly  intem- 
perate and  idle;  and  Hebronius,  who  does  not  appear 
among  his  flock  until  he  has  freed  himself  of  the  Catholic 
religion,  as  he  has  of  the  Jewish  and  the  Protestant,  sees, 
with  dismay,  the  evil  condition  of  his  disciples,  and 
regrets,  too  late,  the  precipitancy  by  which  he  renounced, 
then  and  for  ever,  Christianity.  "  But,  as  he  had  no  new 
religion  to  adopt  in  its  place,  and  as,  grown  more  pru- 
dent and  calm,  he  did  not  wish  to  accuse  himself  un- 
necessarily, once  more,  of  inconstancy  and  apostasy,  he 
still  maintained  all  the  exterior  forms  of  the  worship 
which  inwardly  he  had  abjured.  But  it  was  not  enough 
for  him  to  have  quitted  error,  it  was  necessary  to  dis- 
cover truth.  But  Hebronius  had  well  looked  round  to 
discover  it;  he  could  not  find  anything  that  resembled 
it.    Then  commenced  for  him  a  series  of  sufl*erings,  un- 


MADAME    SAND  303 

known  and  terrible.  Placed  face  to  face  with  doubt, 
this  sincere  and  religious  spirit  was  frightened  at  its 
own  solitude;  and  as  it  had  no  other  desire  nor  aim  on 
earth  than  truth,  and  nothing  else  here  below  interested 
it,  he  lived  absorbed  in  his  own  sad  contemplations, 
looked  ceaselessly  into  the  vague  that  surrounded  him 
like  an  ocean  without  bounds,  and  seeing  the  horizon  re- 
treat and  retreat  as  ever  he  wished  to  near  it.  Lost  in 
this  immense  uncertainty,  he  felt  as  if  attacked  by  ver- 
tigo, and  his  thoughts  whirled  within  his  brain.  Then, 
fatigued  with  his  vain  toils  and  hopeless  endeavours,  he 
would  sink  down  depressed,  unmanned,  life-wearied, 
only  living  in  the  sensation  of  that  silent  grief  which  he 
felt  and  could  not  comprehend." 

It  is  a  pity  that  this  hapless  Spiridion,  so  eager  in  his 
passage  from  one  creed  to  another,  and  so  loud  in  his 
profession  of  the  truth,  wherever  he  fancied  that  he  had 
found  it,  had  not  waited  a  little,  before  he  avowed  him- 
self either  Catholic  or  Protestant,  and  implicated  others 
in  errors  and  follies  which  might,  at  least,  have  been  con- 
fined to  his  own  bosom,  and  there  have  lain  compara- 
tively harmless.  In  what  a  pretty  state,  for  instance, 
will  Messrs.  Dr — d  and  P — 1  have  left  their  Newman 
Street  congregation,  who  are  still  plunged  in  their  old 
superstitions,  from  which  their  spiritual  pastors  and  mas- 
ters have  been  set  free!  In  what  a  state,  too,  do  Mrs. 
Sand  and  her  brother  and  sister  philosophers.  Templars, 
Saint  Simonians,  Fourierites,  Lerouxites,  or  whatever 
the  sect  may  be,  leave  the  unfortunate  people  who  have 
listened  to  their  doctrines,  and  who  have  not  the  oppor- 
tunity, or  the  fiery  versatility  of  belief,  which  carries 
their  teachers  from  one  creed  to  another,  leaving  only 
exploded  lies  and  useless  recantations  behind  them!    I 


304  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

wish  the  State  would  make  a  law  that  one  individual 
should  not  be  allowed  to  preach  more  than  one  doctrine 
in  his  life;  or,  at  any  rate,  should  be  soundly  corrected 
for  every  change  of  creed.  How  many  charlatans  would 
have  been  silenced, — how  much  conceit  would  have  been 
kept  within  bounds,— how  many  fools,  who  are  dazzled 
by  fine  sentences,  and  made  drunk  by  declamation,  would 
have  remained  quiet  and  sober,  in  that  quiet  and  sober 
way  of  faith  which  their  fathers  held  before  them.  How- 
ever, the  reader  will  be  glad  to  learn  that,  after  all  his 
doubts  and  sorrows,  Spiridion  does  discover  the  truth 
{the  ti*uth,  what  a  wise  Spiridion!),  and  some  discretion 
with  it;  for,  having  found  among  his  monks,  who  are 
dissolute,  superstitious — and  all  hate  him — one  only  be- 
ing, Fulgentius,  who  is  loving,  candid,  and  pious,  he 
says  to  him, — "  If  you  were  like  myself,  if  the  first  want 
of  your  nature  were,  like  mine,  to  know,  I  would,  with- 
out hesitation,  lay  bare  to  you  my  entire  thoughts.  I 
would  make  you  drink  the  cup  of  truth,  which  I  myself 
have  filled  with  so  many  tears,  at  the  risk  of  intoxicating 
you  with  the  draught.  But  it  is  not  so,  alas!  you  are 
made  to  love  rather  than  to  know,  and  your  heart  is 
stronger  than  your  intellect.  You  are  attached  to  Ca- 
tholicism,— I  believe  so,  at  least,— by  bonds  of  sentiment 
which  you  could  not  break  without  pain,  and  which,  if 
you  were  to  break,  the  truth  which  I  could  lay  bare  to 
you  in  return  would  not  repay  you  for  what  you  had 
sacrificed.  Instead  of  exalting,  it  would  crush  you,  very 
likely.  It  is  a  food  too  strong  for  ordinary  men,  and 
which,  when  it  does  not  revivify,  smothers.  I  will  not, 
then,  reveal  to  you  this  doctrine,  which  is  the  triumph  of 
my  life,  and  the  consolation  of  my  last  days;  because 
it  might,  perhaps,  be  for  you  only  a  cause  of  mourning 


MADAME    SAND  305 

and  despair.  *  *  *  Of  all  the  works  which  my  long 
studies  have  produced,  there  is  one  alone  which  I  have 
not  given  to  the  flames ;  for  it  alone  is  complete.  In  that 
you  will  find  me  entire,  and  there  lies  the  truth. 
And,  as  the  sage  has  said  you  must  not  bury  your  trea- 
sures in  a  well,  I  will  not  confide  mine  to  the  brutal  stu- 
pidity of  these  monks.  But  as  this  volume  should  only 
pass  into  hands  worthy  to  touch  it,  and  be  laid  open  for 
eyes  that  are  capable  of  comprehending  its  mysteries,  I 
shall  exact  from  the  reader  one  condition,  which,  at  the 
same  time,  shall  be  a  proof:  I  shall  carry  it  with  me  to 
the  tomb,  in  order  that  he  who  one  day  shall  read  it,  may 
have  courage  enough  to  brave  the  vain  terrors  of  the 
grave,  in  searching  for  it  amid  the  dust  of  my  sepulchre. 
As  soon  as  I  am  dead,  therefore,  place  this  writing  on 
my  breast.  *  *  *  Ah!  when  the  time  comes  for 
reading  it,  I  think  my  withered  heart  will  spring 
up  again,  as  the  frozen  grass  at  the  return  of  the 
sun,  and  that,  from  the  midst  of  its  infinite  transforma- 
tions, my  spirit  will  enter  into  immediate  communication 
with  thine !  " 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

Does  not  the  reader  long  to  be  at  this  precious  manu- 
script, which  contains  the  truth:  and  ought  he  not 
to  be  very  much  obliged  to  Mrs.  Sand,  for  being  so  good 
as  to  print  it  for  him?  We  leave  all  the  story  aside:  how 
Fulgentius  had  not  the  spirit  to  read  the  manuscript, 
but  left  the  secret  to  Alexis;  how  Alexis,  a  stern  old 
philosophical  unbelieving  monk  as  ever  was,  tried  in  vain 
to  lift  up  the  gravestone,  but  was  taken  with  fever,  and 
obliged  to  forego  the  discovery ;  and  how,  finally.  Angel, 
his  disciple,  a  youth  amiable  and  innocent  as  his  name, 
was  the  destined  person  who  brought  the  long-buried 


306  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

treasure  to  light.  Trembling  and  delighted,  the  pair 
read  this  tremendous  manuscript  of  Spiridion. 

Will  it  be  believed,  that  of  all  the  dull,  vague,  windy 
documents  that  mortal  ever  set  eyes  on,  this  is  the  dull- 
est? If  this  be  absolute  truth,  a  quoi  hon  search  for  it, 
since  we  have  long,  long  had  the  jewel  in  our  possession, 
or  since,  at  least,  it  has  been  held  up  as  such  by  every 
sham  philosopher  who  has  had  a  mind  to  pass  off  his 
wares  on  the  public?    Hear  Spiridion:— 

"  How  much  have  I  wept,  how  much  have  I  suffered, 
how  much  have  I  prayed,  how  much  have  I  laboured, 
before  I  understood  the  cause  and  the  aim  of  my  passage 
on  this  earth!  After  many  incertitudes,  after  much  re- 
morse, after  many  scruples,  I  have  comprehended  that 
I  vcas  a  martyr!— ^ui  why  my  martyrdom?  said  I ;  what 
crime  did  I  commit  before  I  was  born,  thus  to  be  con- 
demned to  labour  and  groaning,  from  the  hour  when  I 
first  saw  the  day  up  to  that  when  I  am  about  to  enter 
into  the  night  of  the  tomb? 

"  At  last,  by  dint  of  imploring  God — by  dint  of  in- 
quiry into  the  history  of  man,  a  ray  of  the  truth  has 
descended  on  my  brow,  and  the  shadows  of  the  past  have 
melted  from  before  my  eyes.  I  have  lifted  a  corner  of 
the  curtain:  I  have  seen  enough  to  know  that  my  life, 
like  that  of  the  rest  of  the  human  race,  has  been  a  series 
of  necessary  errors,  yet,  to  speak  more  correctly,  of  in- 
complete truths,  conducting,  more  or  less  slowly  and 
directly,  to  absolute  truth  and  ideal  perfection.  But 
when  will  they  rise  on  the  face  of  the  earth — when  will 
they  issue  from  the  bosom  of  the  Divinity — those  gen- 
erations who  shall  salute  the  august  countenance  of 
Truth,  and  proclaim  the  reign  of  the  ideal  on  earth?  I 
see  well  how  humanity  marches,  but  I  neither  can  see  its 


MADAME    SAND  m 

cradle  nor  its  apotheosis.  Man  seems  to  me  a  transitory- 
race,  between  the  beast  and  the  angel;  but  I  know  not 
how  many  centuries  have  been  required,  that  he  might 
pass  from  the  state  of  brute  to  the  state  of  man,  and  I 
cannot  tell  how  many  ages  are  necessary  that  he  may 
-pass  from  the  state  of  man  to  the  state  of  angel! 

"  Yet  I  hope,  and  I  feel  within  me,  at  the  approach  of 
death,  that  which  warns  me  that  great  destinies  await 
humanity.  In  this  life  all  is  over  for  me.  Much  have 
I  striven,  to  advance  but  little:  I  have  laboured  with- 
out ceasing,  and  have  done  almost  nothing.  Yet,  after 
pains  immeasurable,  I  die  content,  for  I  know  that  I 
have  done  all  I  could,  and  am  sure  that  the  little  I  have 
done  will  not  be  lost. 

"  What,  then,  have  I  done?  this  wilt  thou  demand  of 
me,  man  of  a  future  age,  who  will  seek  for  truth  in  the 
testaments  of  the  past.  Thou  who  wilt  be  no  more  Cath- 
olic— no  more  Christian,  thou  wilt  ask  of  the  poor  monk, 
lying  in  the  dust,  an  account  of  his  life  and  death.  Thou 
wouldst  know  wherefore  were  his  vows,  why  his  austeri- 
ties, his  labours,  his  retreat,  his  prayers? 

"  You  who  turn  back  to  me,  in  order  that  I  may 
guide  you  on  your  road,  and  that  you  may  arrive  more 
quickly  at  the  goal  which  it  has  not  been  my  lot  to 
attain,  pause,  yet,  for  a  moment,  and  look  upon  the  past 
history  of  humanity.  You  will  see  that  its  fate  has  been 
ever  to  choose  between  the  least  of  two  evils,  and  ever  to 
commit  great  faults  in  order  to  avoid  others  still  greater. 
You  will  see  *  *  *  on  one  side,  the  heathen  mythol- 
ogy, that  debased  the  spirit,  in  its  efforts  to  deify  the 
flesh;  on  the  other,  the  austere  Christian  principle,  that 
debased  the  flesh  too  much,  in  order  to  raise  the  worship 
of  the  spirit.    You  will  see  afterwards,  how  the  religion 


308  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

of  Christ  embodies  itself  in  a  church,  and  raises  itself  a 
generous  democratic  power  against  the  tyranny  of 
princes.  Later  still,  you  will  see  how  that  power  has 
attained  its  end,  and  passed  beyond  it.  You  will  see  it, 
having  chained  and  conquered  princes,  league  itself  with 
them,  in  order  to  oppress  the  people,  and  seize  on  tem- 
poral power.  Schism,  then,  raises  up  against  it  the  stan- 
dard of  revolt,  and  preaches  the  bold  and  legitimate 
princijile  of  liberty  of  conscience :  but,  also,  you  will  see 
how  this  liberty  of  conscience  brings  religious  anarchy 
in  its  train ;  or,  worse  still,  religious  indifference  and  dis- 
gust. And  if  your  soul,  shattered  in  the  tempestuous 
changes  which  you  behold  humanity  undergoing,  would 
strike  out  for  itself  a  passage  through  the  rocks,  amidst 
which,  like  a  frail  bark,  lies  tossing  trembling  truth,  you 
will  be  embarrassed  to  choose  between  the  new  philos- 
ophers— who,  in  preaching  tolerance,  destroy  religious 
and  social  unity— and  the  last  Christians,  who,  to  pre- 
serve society,  that  is,  religion  and  philosophy,  are  obliged 
to  brave  the  principle  of  toleration.  Man  of  truth!  to 
whom  I  address,  at  once,  my  instruction  and  my  justifi- 
cation, at  the  time  when  you  shall  live,  the  science  of 
truth  no  doubt  will  have  advanced  a  step.  Think,  then, 
of  all  your  fathers  have  suffered,  as,  bending  beneath  the 
weight  of  their  ignorance  and  uncertainty,  they  have  tra- 
versed the  desert  across  which,  with  so  much  pain,  they 
have  conducted  thee!  And  if  the  pride  of  thy  young 
learning  shall  make  thee  contemplate  the  petty  strifes  in 
which  our  life  has  been  consumed,  pause  and  tremble,  as 
you  think  of  that  which  is  still  unknown  to  yourself,  and 
of  the  judgment  that  your  descendants  will  pass  on  you. 
Think  of  this,  and  learn  to  respect  all  those  who,  seeking 
their  way  in  all  sincerity,  have  wandered  from  the  path. 


MADAME    SAND  309 

frightened  by  the  storm,  and  sorely  tried  by  the  severe 
hand  of  the  All-Powerful.  Think  of  this,  and  prostrate 
yourself;  for  all  these,  even  the  most  mistaken  among 
them,  are  saints  and  martyrs. 

"  Without  their  conquests  and  their  defeats,  thou  wert 
in  darkness  still.  Yes,  their  failures,  their  errors  even, 
have  a  right  to  your  respect;  for  man  is  weak.  *  * 
Weep,  then,  for  us  obscure  toilers — unknown  victims, 
who,  by  our  mortal  sufferings  and  unheard-of  labours, 
have  prepared  the  way  before  you.  Pity  me,  who  hav- 
ing passionately  loved  justice,  and  perseveringly  sought 
for  truth,  only  opened  my  eyes  to  shut  them  again  for 
ever,  and  saw  that  I  had  been  in  vain  endeavouring  to 
support  a  ruin,  to  take  refuge  in  a  vault  of  which  the 
foundations  were  worn  away."    *    *    * 

The  rest  of  the  book  of  Spiridion  is  made  up  of  a 
history  of  the  rise,  progress,  and  (what  our  philosopher 
is  pleased  to  call)  decay  of  Christianity — of  an  assertion, 
that  the  "  doctrine  of  Christ  is  incomplete;  "  that  "  Christ 
may,  nevertheless,  take  his  place  in  the  Pantheon  of 
divine  men!"  and  of  a  long,  disgusting,  absurd,  and 
impious  vision,  in  which  the  Saviour,  Moses,  David,  and 
Elijah  are  represented,  and  in  which  Christ  is  made  to 
say — "  We  are  all  Messiahs,  when  we  wish  to  bring  the 
reign  of  truth  upon  earth;  we  are  all  Christs,  when  we 
suffer  for  it!  " 

And  this  is  the  ultimatum,  the  supreme  secret,  the 
absolute  truth!  and  it  has  been  published  by  Mrs.  Sand, 
for  so  many  napoleons  per  sheet,  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes;  and  the  Deux  IVIondes  are  to  abide  by  it  for 
the  future.  After  having  attained  it,  are  we  a  whit 
wiser?  "  Man  is  between  an  angel  and  a  beast:  I  don't 
know  how  long  it  is  since  he  was  a  brute — I  can't  say 


310     •     THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

how  long  it  will  be  before  he  is  an  angel."  Think  of 
people  living  by  their  wits,  and  living  by  such  a  wit  as 
this !  Think  of  the  state  of  mental  debauch  and  disease 
which  must  have  been  passed  through,  ere  such  words 
could  be  written,  and  could  be  popular! 

When  a  man  leaves  our  dismal,  smoky  London  at- 
mosphere, and  breathes,  instead  of  coal-smoke  and  yel- 
low fog,  this  bright,  clear,  French  air,  he  is  quite  intoxi- 
cated by  it  at  first,  and  feels  a  glow  in  his  blood,  and  a 
joy  in  his  spirits,  which  scarcely  thrice  a  year,  and  then 
only  at  a  distance  from  London,  he  can  attain  in  Eng- 
land. Is  the  intoxication,  I  wonder,  permanent  among 
the  natives  ?  and  may  we  not  account  for  the  ten  thousand 
frantic  freaks  of  these  peoj^le  by  the  peculiar  influence 
of  French  air  and  sun?  The  philosophers  are  from  night 
to  morning  drunk,  the  politicians  are  drunk,  the  literary 
men  reel  and  stagger  from  one  absurdity  to  another,  and 
how  shall  we  understand  their  vagaries  ?  Let  us  suppose, 
charitably,  that  ^ladame  Sand  had  inhaled  a  more  than 
ordinary  quantity  of  this  laughing  gas  when  she  wrote 
for  us  this  precious  manuscript  of  Spiridion.  That  great 
destinies  are  in  prospect  for  the  human  race  we  may 
fancy,  without  her  ladyship's  word  for  it:  but  more  lib- 
eral than  she,  and  having  a  little  retrospective  charity, 
as  well  as  that  easy  prospective  benevolence  which  Mrs. 
Sand  adopts,  let  us  try  and  think  there  is  some  hope  for 
our  fathers  (who  were  nearer  brutality  than  ourselves, 
according  to  the  Sandean  creed),  or  else  there  is  a  very 
poor  chance  for  us,  who,  great  philosophers  as  we  are, 
are  yet,  alas !  far  removed  from  that  angelic  consumma- 
tion which  all  must  wish  for  so  devoutly.  She  cannot 
say — is  it  not  extraordinary?— how  many  centuries  have 
been  necessary  before  man  could  pass  from  the  brutal 


MADAME    SAND  311 

state  to  his  present  condition,  or  how  many  ages  will 
be  required  ere  we  may  pass  from  the  state  of  man  to 
the  state  of  angels?    What  the  deuce  is  the  use  of  chro- 
nology or  philosophy? — We  were  beasts,  and  we  can't 
tell  when  our  tails  dropped  off;  we  shall  be  angels;  but 
when  our  wings  are  to  begin  to  sprout,  who  knows? 
In  the  meantime,  O  man  of  genius,  follow  our  counsel: 
lead  an  easy  life,  don't  stick  at  trifles ;  never  mind  about 
duty,  it  is  only  made  for  slaves;  if  the  world  reproach 
you,  reproach  the  world  in  return,  you  have  a  good  loud 
tongue  in  your  head:  if  your  strait-laced  morals  injure 
your  mental  respiration,  fling  off"  the  old-fashioned  stays, 
and  leave  your  free  limbs  to  rise  and  fall  as  Nature 
pleases;  and  when  you  have  grown  pretty  sick  of  your 
liberty,  and  yet  unfit  to  return  to  restraint,  curse  the 
world,  and  scorn  it,  and  be  miserable,  like  my  Lord 
Byron  and  other  philosophers  of  his  kidney;  or  else 
mount  a  step  higher,  and,  with  conceit  still  more  mon- 
strous, and  mental  vision  still  more  wretchedly  debauched 
and  weak,  begin  suddenly  to  find  yourself  afflicted  with 
a  maudlin  compassion  for  the  human  race,  and  a  desire 
to  set  them  right  after  your  own  fashion.    There  is  the 
quarrelsome  stage  of  diimkenness,  when  a  man  can  as 
yet  walk  and  speak,  when  he  can  call  names,  and  fling- 
plates  and  wine-glasses  at  his  neighbour's  head  with  a 
pretty  good  aim;  after  this  comes  the  pathetic  stage, 
when  the  patient  becomes  wondrous  philanthropic,  and 
weeps  wildly,  as  he  lies  in  the  gutter,  and  fancies  he  is 
at  home  in  bed— where  he  ought  to  be;  but  this  is  an 
allegory. 

I  don't  wish  to  carry  this  any  farther,  or  to  say  a  word 
in  defence  of  the  doctrine  which  Mrs.  Dudevant  has 
found  "incomplete;"— here,  at  least,  is  not  the  place 


312         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

for  discussing  its  merits,  any  more  than  Mrs.  Sand's  book 
was  the  place  for  exposing,  forsooth,  its  errors :  our  busi- 
ness is  only  with  the  day  and  the  new  novels,  and  the 
clever  or  silly  people  w^ho  write  them.  Oh!  if  they  but 
knew  their  places,  and  would  keep  to  them,  and  drop 
their  absurd  philosophical  jargon !  Xot  all  the  big  words 
in  the  world  can  make  Mrs.  Sand  talk  like  a  philosopher: 
when  will  she  go  back  to  her  old  trade,  of  which  she 
was  the  very  ablest  practitioner  in  France? 

I  should  have  been  glad  to  give  some  extracts  from 
the  dramatic  and  descriptive  parts  of  the  novel,  that 
cannot,  in  point  of  style  and  beauty,  be  praised  too 
highly.  One  must  suffice,— it  is  the  descent  of  Alexis 
to  seek  that  unlucky  manuscript,  Spiridion. 

"  It  seemed  to  me,"  he  begins,  "  that  the  descent  was 
eternal;  and  that  I  was  burying  myself  in  the  depths 
of  Erebus:  at  last,  I  reached  a  level  place,— and  I  heard 
a  mournful  voice  deliver  these  words,  as  it  were,  to  the 
secret  centre  of  the  earth—'  He  tcill  mount  that  ascent 
no  more!  '—Immediately  I  heard  arise  towards  me,  from 
the  depth  of  invisible  abysses,  a  myriad  of  formidable 
voices  united  in  a  strange  Qhsini—' Let  us  destroy  him! 
Let  him  he  destroyed!  What  does  he  here  among  the 
dead?  Let  Mm  he  delivered  hack  to  torture!  Let  him 
he  given  again  to  life! ' 

"  Then  a  feeble  light  began  to  pierce  the  darkness,  and 
I  perceived  that  I  stood  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stair- 
case, vast  as  the  foot  of  a  mountain.  Behind  me  were 
thousands  of  steps  of  lurid  iron ;  before  me,  nothing  but 
a  void— an  abyss,  and  ether;  the  blue  gloom  of  midnight 
beneath  my  feet,  as  above  my  head.  I  became  delirious, 
and  quitting  that  staircase,  which  methought  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  reascend,  I  sprung  forth  into  the 


MADAME   SAXD  313 

void  with  an  execration.  But,  immediately,  when  I  had 
uttered  the  curse,  the  void  began  to  be  filled  with  forms 
and  colours,  and  I  presently  perceived  that  I  was  in  a 
vast  gallery,  along  which  I  advanced,  trembling.  There 
was  still  darkness  round  me;  but  the  hollows  of  the 
vaults  gleamed  with  a  red  light,  and  showed  me  the 
strange  and  hideous  forms  of  their  building.  *  *  *  I 
did  not  distinguish  the  nearest  objects;  but  those  towards 
which  I  advanced  assumed  an  appearance  more  and  more 
ominous,  and  my  terror  increased  with  every  step  I  took. 
The  enormous  pillars  which  supported  the  vault,  and 
the  tracery  thereof  itself,  were  figures  of  men,  of  super- 
natural stature,  delivered  to  tortures  without  a  name. 
Some  hung  by  their  feet,  and,  locked  in  the  coils  of  mon- 
strous serpents,  clenched  their  teeth  in  the  marble  of  the 
pavement ;  others,  fastened  by  their  waists,  were  dragged 
upwards,  these  by  their  feet,  those  by  their  heads, 
towards  capitals,  where  other  figures  stooped  towards 
them,  eager  to  torment  them.  Other  pillars,  again,  rep- 
resented a  struggling  mass  of  figures  devouring  one 
another;  each  of  which  only  offered  a  trunk  severed  to 
the  knees  or  to  the  shoulders,  the  fierce  heads  whereof 
retained  life  enough  to  seize  and  devour  that  which  was 
near  them.  There  were  some  who,  half  hanging  down, 
agonized  themselves  by  attempting,  with  their  upper 
limbs,  to  flay  the  lower  moiety  of  their  bodies,  which 
drooped  from  the  columns,  or  were  attached  to  the 
pedestals ;  and  others,  who,  in  their  fight  with  each  other, 
were  dragged  along  by  morsels  of  flesh, — grasping 
which,  they  clung  to  each  other  with  a  countenance  of 
unspeakable  hate  and  agony.  Along,  or  rather  in  place 
of,  the  frieze,  there  were  on  either  side  a  range  of  un- 
clean beings,  wearing  the  human  form,  but  of  a  loath- 


314  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

some  ugliness,  busied  in  tearing  human  corpses  to  pieces 
—in  feasting  upon  their  hmbs  and  entrails.  From  the 
vault,  instead  of  bosses  and  pendants,  hung  the  crushed 
and  wounded  forms  of  children;  as  if  to  escape  these 
eaters  of  man's  flesh,  they  would  throw  themselves  down- 
wards, and  be  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  pavement.  *  *  * 
The  silence  and  motionlessness  of  the  whole  added  to  its 
awfulness.  I  became  so  faint  with  terror,  that  I  stopped, 
and  would  fain  have  returned.  But  at  that  moment  I 
heard,  from  the  depths  of  the  gloom  through  which  I 
had  passed,  confused  noises,  like  those  of  a  multitude  on 
its  march.  And  the  sounds  soon  became  more  distinct, 
and  the  clamour  fiercer,  and  the  steps  came  hurrying  on 
tumultuously— at  every  new  burst  nearer,  more  violent, 
more  threatening.  I  thought  that  I  was  pursued  by  this 
disorderly  crowd ;  and  I  strove  to  advance,  hurrying  into 
the  midst  of  those  dismal  sculptures.  Then  it  seemed 
as  if  those  figures  began  to  heave, — and  to  sweat  blood, 
— and  their  beady  eyes  to  move  in  their  sockets.  At  once 
I  beheld  that  they  were  all  looking  upon  me,  that  they 
were  all  leaning  towards  me,— some  with  frightful  de- 
rision, others  with  furious  aversion.  Every  arm  was 
raised  against  me,  and  they  made  as  though  they  would 
crush  me  with  the  quivering  limbs  they  had  torn  one  from 
the  other."    *    *    * 

It  is,  indeed,  a  pity  that  the  poor  fellow  gave  himself 
the  trouble  to  go  down  into  damp,  unwholesome  graves, 
for  the  purpose  of  fetching  up  a  few  trumpery  sheets  of 
manuscript ;  and  if  the  public  has  been  rather  tired  with 
their  contents,  and  is  disposed  to  ask  why  Mrs.  Sand's 
religious  or  irreligious  notions  are  to  be  brought  forward 
to  people  who  are  quite  satisfied  with  their  own,  we  can 
only  say  that  this  lady  is  the  representative  of  a  vast  class 


MADAME   SAND  315 

of  her  countrymen,  whom  the  wits  and  philosophers  of 
the  eighteenth  century  have  brought  to  this  condition. 
The  leaves  of  the  Diderot  and  Rousseau  tree  have  pro- 
duced this  goodly  fruit:  here  it  is,  ripe,  bursting,  and 
ready  to  fall;— and  how  to  fall?  Heaven  send  that  it 
may  drop  easily,  for  all  can  see  that  the  time  is  come. 


THE    CASE    OF   PEYTEL 

IN   A  LETTER  TO   EDWARD   BRIEFLESS^  ESQUIRE,  OF 
PUMP  COURT,  TEIVIPLE 

Paris,  November,  1839. 

MY  DEAR  BRIEFLESS,-Two  months  since, 
when  the  act  of  accusation  first  appeared,  con- 
taining the  sum  of  the  charges  against  Sebastian 
Peytel,  all  Paris  was  in  a  fervour  on  the  subject. 
The  man's  trial  speedily  followed,  and  kept  for  three 
days  the  public  interest  wound  up  to  a  painful  point. 
He  was  found  guilty  of  double  murder  at  the  beginning 
of  September;  and,  since  that  time,  what  with  Maroto's 
disaffection  and  Turkish  news,  we  have  had  leisure  to 
forget  JNlonsieur  Peytel,  and  to  occupy  ourselves  with 
TC  V£OV.  Perhaps  jNIonsieur  de  Balzac  helped  to  smother 
what  little  sparks  of  interest  might  still  have  remained 
for  the  murderous  notary.  Balzac  put  forward  a  letter 
in  his  favour,  so  very  long,  so  very  dull,  so  very  pompous, 
promising  so  much,  and  performing  so  little,  that  the 
Parisian  public  gave  up  Peytel  and  his  case  altogether; 
nor  was  it  until  to-day  that  some  small  feeling  was 
raised  concerning  him,  when  the  newspapers  brought  the 
account  how  Peytel's  head  had  been  cut  off  at  Bourg. 

He  had  gone  through  the  usual  miserable  ceremonies 
and  delays  which  attend  what  is  called,  in  this  country, 
the  march  of  justice.  He  had  made  his  appeal  to  the 
Court  of  Cassation,  which  had  taken  time  to  consider 
the  verdict  of  the  Provincial  Court,  and  had  confirmed 

316 


THE   CASE   OF  PEYTEL  317 

it.  He  had  made  his  appeal  for  mercy;  his  poor  sister 
coming  up  all  the  way  from  Bom'g  (a  sad  journey,  poor 
thing!)  to  have  an  interview  with  the  King,  who  had 
refused  to  see  her.  Last  Monday  morning,  at  nine 
o'clock,  an  hour  before  Peytel's  breakfast,  the  Greffier 
of  Assize  Court,  in  company  with  the  Cure  of  Bourg, 
waited  on  him,  and  informed  him  that  he  had  only  three 
hours  to  live.  At  twelve  o'clock,  Pevtel's  head  was  off 
his  body:  an  executioner  from  Lyons  had  come  over 
the  night  before,  to  assist  the  professional  throat-cutter 
of  Bourg. 

I  am  not  going  to  entertain  you  with  any  sentimental 
lamentations  for  this  scoundrel's  fate,  or  to  declare  my 
belief  in  his  innocence,  as  Monsieur  de  Balzac  has  done. 

As  far  as  moral  conviction  can  go,  the  man's  guilt  is 
pretty  clearly  brought  home  to  him.  But  any  man  who 
has  read  the  "  Causes  Celebres,"  knows  that  men  have 
been  convicted  and  executed  upon  evidence  ten  times 
more  powerful  than  that  which  was  brought  against 
Peytel.  His  own  account  of  his  horrible  case  may  be 
true;  there  is  nothing  adduced  in  the  evidence  which  is 
strong  enough  to  overthrow  it.  It  is  a  serious  privilege, 
God  knows,  that  society  takes  upon  itself,  at  any  time, 
to  deprive  one  of  God's  creatures  of  existence.  But 
when  the  slightest  doubt  remains,  what  a  tremendous  risk 
does  it  incur!  In  England,  thank  heaven,  the  law  is 
more  wise  and  more  merciful:  an  English  jury  would 
never  have  taken  a  man's  blood  upon  such  testimony: 
an  English  judge  and  Crown  advocate  would  never  have 
acted  as  these  Frenchmen  have  done ;  the  latter  inflaming 
the  public  mind  by  exaggerated  appeals  to  their  passions : 
the  former  seeking,  in  every  way,  to  draw  confessions 
from  the  prisoner,  to  perplex  and  confound  him,  to  do 


318  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

away,  by  fierce  cross-questioning  and  bitter  remarks  from 
the  bench,  with  any  effect  that  his  testimony  might  have 
on  the  jury.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  judges  and  law- 
yers have  been  more  violent  and  inquisitorial  against  the 
unhappy  Peytel  than  against  any  one  else;  it  is  the 
fashion  of  the  country:  a  man  is  guilty  until  he  proves 
himself  to  be  innocent;  and  to  batter  down  his  defence, 
if  he  have  any,  there  are  the  lawyers,  with  all  their  hor- 
rible ingenuity,  and  their  captivating  passionate  elo- 
quence. It  is  hard  thus  to  set  the  skilful  and  tried 
chami3ions  of  the  law  against  men  unused  to  this  kind  of 
combat;  nay,  give  a  man  all  the  legal  aid  that  he  can 
purchase  or  procure,  still,  by  this  plan,  you  take  him  at 
a  cruel,  unmanly  disadvantage;  he  has  to  fight  against 
the  law,  clogged  with  the  dreadful  weight  of  his  pre- 
supposed guilt.  Thank  God  that,  in  England,  things 
are  not  managed  so. 

However,  I  am  not  about  to  entertain  you  with  ig- 
norant disquisitions  about  the  law.  Peytel's  case  may, 
nevertheless,  interest  you;  for  the  tale  is  a  very  stirring 
and  mysterious  one;  and  you  may  see  how  easy  a  thing 
it  is  for  a  man's  life  to  be  talked  away  in  France,  if  ever 
he  should  happen  to  fall  under  the  suspicion  of  a  crime. 
The  French  "  Acte  d'accusation  "  begins  in  the  follow- 
ing manner: — 

"  Of  all  the  events  which,  in  these  latter  times,  have 
afflicted  the  department  of  the  Ain,  there  is  none  which 
has  caused  a  more  profound  and  lively  sensation  than 
the  tragical  death  of  the  lady,  Felicite  Alcazar,  wife  of 
Sebastian  Benedict  Peytel,  notary,  at  Belley.  At  the 
end  of  October,  1838,  Madame  Peytel  quitted  that  town, 
with  her  husband  and  their  servant  Louis  Rey,  in  order 
to  pass  a  few  days  at  Macon :  at  midnight,  the  inhabitants 


THE  CASE   OF  PEYTEL  319 

of  Belley  were  suddenly  awakened  by  the  arrival  of  Mon- 
sieur Peytel,  by  his  cries,  and  by  the  signs  which  he  exhib- 
ited of  the  most  lively  agitation:  he  implored  the  suc- 
cours of  all  the  physicians  in  the  town ;  knocked  violently 
at  their  doors;  rung  at  the  bells  of  their  houses  with  a 
sort  of  frenzy,  and  announced  that  his  wife,  stretched 
out,  and  dying,  in  his  carriage,  had  just  been  shot,  on  the 
Lyons  road,  by  his  domestic,  whose  life  Peytel  himself 
had  taken. 

"  At  this  recital  a  number  of  persons  assembled,  and 
what  a  spectacle  was  presented  to  their  eyes. 

"  A  young  woman  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  carriage,  de- 
prived of  life;  her  whole  body  was  wet,  and  seemed  as 
if  it  had  just  been  plunged  into  the  water.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  severely  wounded  in  the  face ;  and  her  gar- 
ments, which  were  raised  up,  in  spite  of  the  cold  and 
rainy  weather,  left  the  upper  part  of  her  knees  almost 
entirely  exposed.  At  the  sight  of  this  half -naked  and 
inanimate  body,  all  the  spectators  were  affected.  People 
said  that  the  first  duty  to  pay  to  a  dying  woman  was,  to 
preserve  her  from  the  cold,  to  cover  her.  A  physician 
examined  the  body;  he  declared  that  all  remedies  were 
useless ;  that  Madame  Peytel  was  dead  and  cold. 

"The  entreaties  of  Peytel  were  redoubled;  he  de- 
manded fresh  succours;  and,  giving  no  heed  to  the  fatal 
assurance  which  had  just  been  given  him,  required  that 
all  the  physicians  in  the  place  should  be  sent  for.  A 
scene  so  strange  and  so  melancholy;  the  incoherent  ac- 
count given  by  Peytel  of  the  murder  of  his  wife ;  his  ex- 
traordinary movements;  and  the  avowal  which  he  con- 
tinued to  make,  that  he  had  despatched  the  murderer, 
Rey,  with  strokes  of  his  hammer,  excited  the  attention 
of  Lieutenant  Wolf,  commandant  of  gendarmes:  that 


320         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

officer  gave  orders  for  the  immediate  arrest  of  Peytel; 
but  the  latter  threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  a  friend,  who 
interceded  for  him,  and  begged  the  police  not  immedi- 
ately to  seize  upon  his  person. 

"  The  corpse  of  Madame  Peytel  was  transported  to 
her  apartment;  the  bleeding  body  of  the  domestic  was 
likewise  brought  from  the  road,  where  it  lay ;  and  Peytel, 
asked  to  explain  the  circumstance,  did  so."    *    *    * 

Now,  as  there  is  little  reason  to  tell  the  reader,  when 
an  English  counsel  has  to  prosecute  a  prisoner  on  the 
part  of  the  Crown  for  a  capital  offence,  he  produces 
the  articles  of  his  accusation  in  the  most  moderate  terms, 
and  especially  warns  the  jury  to  give  the  accused  person 
the  benefit  of  every  possible  doubt  that  the  evidence  may 
give,  or  may  leave.  See  how  these  things  are  managed 
in  France,  and  how  differently  the  French  counsel  for 
the  Crown  sets  about  his  work. 

He  first  prepares  his  act  of  accusation,  the  opening  of 
which  we  have  just  read;  it  is  published  six  days  before 
the  trial,  so  that  an  unimpassioned,  unprejudiced  jury 
has  ample  time  to  study  it,  and  to  form  its  opinions 
accordingly,  and  to  go  into  court  with  a  ha]3py,  just  pre- 
possession against  the  prisoner. 

Read  the  first  part  of  the  Peytel  act  of  accusation; 
it  is  as  turgid  and  declamatory  as  a  bad  romance;  and 
as  inflated  as  a  newspaper  document,  by  an  unlimited 
penny-a-liner: — "  The  department  of  the  Ain  is  in  a 
dreadful  state  of  excitement;  the  inhabitants  of  Belley 
come  trooping  from  their  beds, — and  what  a  sight  do 
they  behold; — a  young  woman  at  the  bottom  of  a  car- 
riage, toute  ruisselante,  just  out  of  a  river;  her  garments, 
in  spite  of  the  cold  and  rain,  raised,  so  as  to  leave  the 
upper  part  of  her  knees  entirely  exposed,  at  which  all 


THE   CASE   OF  PEYTEL  321 

the  beholders  were  affected,  and  cried,  that  the  first 
duty  was  to  cover  her  from  the  cold."  This  settles  the 
case  at  once;  the  first  duty  of  a  man  is  to  cover  the  legs 
of  the  sufferer ;  the  second  to  call  for  help.  The  eloquent 
"  Substitut  du  Procureur  du  Roi  "  has  prejudged  the 
case,  in  the  course  of  a  few  sentences.  He  is  putting  liis 
readers,  among  whom  his  future  jury  is  to  be  found, 
into  a  proper  state  of  mind;  he  works  on  them  with 
pathetic  description,  just  as  a  romance-writer  would:  the 
rain  pours  in  torrents ;  it  is  a  dreary  evening  in  Novem- 
ber; the  young  creature's  situation  is  neatly  described; 
the  distrust  which  entered  into  the  breast  of  the  keen 
old  officer  of  gendarmes  strongly  painted,  the  suspicions 
which  might,  or  might  not,  have  been  entertained  by  the 
inhabitants,  eloquently  argued.  How  did  the  advocate 
know  that  the  people  had  such  ?  did  all  the  bystanders  say 
aloud,  "  I  suspect  that  this  is  a  case  of  murder  by  ]\Ion- 
sieur  Peytel,  and  that  his  story  about  the  domestic  is  all 
deception?  "  or  did  they  go  off  to  the  mayor,  and  regis- 
ter their  suspicion?  or  was  the  advocate  there  to  hear 
them?  Not  he;  but  he  paints  you  the  whole  scene,  as 
though  it  had  existed,  and  gives  full  accounts  of  sus- 
picions, as  if  they  had  been  facts,  positive,  patent,  star- 
ing, that  everybody  could  see  and  swear  to. 

Having  thus  primed  his  audience,  and  prepared  them 
for  the  testimony  of  the  accused  party,  "  Now,"  says  he, 
wdth  a  fine  show  of  justice,  "  let  us  hear  ^lonsieur  Pey- 
tel; "  and  that  worthy's  narrative  is  given  as  follows:  — 

"  He  said  that  he  had  left  Macon  on  the  31st  October, 
at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  order  to  return  to 
Belley,  with  his  wife  and  servant.  The  latter  drove,  or 
led,  an  open  car;  he  himself  was  driving  his  wife  in  a 
four-wheeled  carriage,  drawn  by  one  horse :  they  reached 


322  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Bourg  at  five  o'clock  in  tlie  evening;  left  it  at  seven,  to 
sleep  at  Pont  d'Ain,  where  they  did  not  arrive  before 
midnight.  During  the  journey,  Peytel  thought  he  re- 
marked that  Rey  had  slackened  his  horse's  pace.  When 
they  alighted  at  the  inn,  Peytel  bade  him  deposit  in  his 
chamber  7,500  francs,  which  he  carried  with  him;  but  the 
domestic  refused  to  do  so,  saying  that  the  inn  gates 
were  secure,  and  there  was  no  danger.  Peytel  was, 
therefore,  obliged  to  carry  his  money  upstairs  himself. 
The  next  day,  the  1st  November,  they  set  out  on  their 
journey  again,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning;  Louis 
did  not  come,  according  to  custom,  to  take  his  master's 
orders.  They  arrived  at  Tenay  about  three,  stopped 
there  a  couple  of  hours  to  dine,  and  it  was  eight  o'clock 
when  they  reached  the  bourg  of  Rossillon,  where  they 
waited  half  an  hour  to  bait  the  horses. 

"As  they  left  Rossillon,  the  weather  became  bad,  and 
the  rain  began  to  fall:  Peytel  told  his  domestic  to  get  a 
covering  for  the  articles  in  the  open  chariot;  but  Rey 
refused  to  do  so,  adding,  in  an  ironical  tone,  that  the 
weather  was  fine.  For  some  days  past,  Peytel  had  re- 
marked that  his  servant  was  gloomy,  and  scarcely  spoke 
at  all. 

"After  they  had  gone  about  500  paces  beyond  the 
bridge  of  Andert,  that  crosses  the  river  Furans,  and 
ascended  to  the  least  steep  part  of  the  hill  of  Darde, 
Peytel  cried  out  to  his  servant,  who  was  seated  in  the  car, 
to  come  down  from  it,  and  finish  the  ascent  on  foot. 

"At  that  moment  a  violent  wind  was  blowing  from 
the  south,  and  the  rain  was  falling  heavily:  Peytel 
was  seated  back  in  the  right  corner  of  the  carriage, 
and  his  wife,  who  was  close  to  him,  was  asleep,  with 
her  head  on  his  left  shoulder.    All  of  a  sudden  he  heard 


THE   CASE   OF  PEYTEL  323 

the  report  of  a  fire-arm  (he  had  seen  the  hght  of  it  at 
some  paces'  distance),  and  INIadame  Peytel  cried  out, 
'  My  poor  husband,  take  your  pistols ; '  the  horse  was 
frightened,  and  began  to  trot.  Peytel  immediately  drew 
the  pistol,  and  fired,  from  the  interior  of  the  carriage, 
upon  an  individual  whom  he  saw  iiinning  by  the  side 
of  the  road. 

"  Not  knowing,  as  yet,  that  his  wife  had  been  hit,  he 
jumped  out  on  one  side  of  the  carriage,  while  Madame 
Peytel  descended  from  the  other;  and  he  fired  a  second 
pistol  at  his  domestic,  Louis  Rey,  whom  he  had  just 
recognized.  Redoubling  his  pace,  he  came  up  with  Rey, 
and  struck  him,  from  behind,  a  blow  with  the  hammer. 
Rey  turned  at  this,  and  raised  up  his  arm  to  strike  his 
master  with  the  pistol  which  he  had  just  discharged  at 
him;  but  Peytel,  more  quick  than  he,  gave  the  domestic 
a  blow  with  the  hammer,  which  felled  him  to  the  ground 
(he  fell  his  face  forwards),  and  then  Peytel,  bestriding 
the  body,  despatched  him,  although  the  brigand  asked  for 
mercy. 

"  He  now  began  to  think  of  his  wife;  and  ran  back, 
calling  out  her  name  repeatedly,  and  seeking  for  her,  in 
vain,  on  both  sides  of  the  road.  Arrived  at  the  bridge 
of  Andert,  he  recognized  his  wife,  stretched  in  a  field, 
covered  with  water,  which  bordered  the  Furans.  This 
horrible  discovery  had  so  much  the  more  astonished  him, 
because  he  had  no  idea,  until  now,  that  his  wife  had  been 
wounded:  he  endeavoured  to  draw  her  from  the  water; 
and  it  was  only  after  considerable  exertions  that  he  was 
enabled  to  do  so,  and  to  place  her,  with  her  face  towards 
the  ground,  on  the  side  of  the  road.  Supposing  that, 
here,  she  would  be  sheltered  from  any  farther  danger, 
and  believing,  as  yet,  that  she  was  onl}^  wounded,  he 


324  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

determined  to  ask  for  help  at  a  lone  house,  situated  on  the 
road  towards  Rossillon ;  and  at  this  instant  he  perceived, 
without  at  all  being  able  to  explain  how,  that  his  horse 
had  followed  him  back  to  the  spot,  having  turned  back 
of  its  own  accord,  from  the  road  to  Belley. 

"  The  house  at  which  he  knocked  was  inhabited  by  two 
men,  of  the  name  of  Thannet,  father  and  son,  who  opened 
the  door  to  him,  and  whom  he  entreated  to  come  to  his 
aid,  saying  that  his  wife  had  just  been  assassinated  by 
his  servant.  The  elder  Thannet  approached  to,  and  ex- 
amined the  body,  and  told  Peytel  that  it  was  quite  dead ; 
he  and  his  son  took  up  the  corpse,  and  placed  it  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  carriage,  which  they  all  mounted  themselves, 
and  pursued  their  route  to  Belley.  In  order  to  do  so, 
they  had  to  pass  by  Key's  body,  on  the  road,  which 
Peytel  wished  to  crush  under  the  wheels  of  his  carriage. 
It  was  to  rob  him  of  7,500  francs,  said  Peytel,  that  the 
attack  had  been  made." 

Our  friend,  the  Procureur's  Substitut,  has  dropped, 
here,  the  eloquent  and  pathetic  style  altogether,  and  only 
gives  the  unlucky  prisoner's  narrative  in  the  baldest  and 
most  unimaginative  style.  How  is  a  jury  to  listen  to 
such  a  fellow?  they  ought  to  condemn  him,  if  but  for 
making  such  an  uninteresting  statement.  Why  not  have 
helped  poor  Peytel  with  some  of  those  rhetorical  graces 
which  have  been  so  plentifully  bestowed  in  the  opening 
part  of  the  act  of  accusation?     He  might  have  said: — 

"  Monsieur  Peytel  is  an  eminent  notary  at  Belley ; 
he  is  a  man  distinguished  for  his  literary  and  scientific 
acquirements ;  he  has  lived  long  in  the  best  society  of  the 
capital;  he  had  been  but  a  few  months  married  to  that 
young  and  unfortunate  lady,  whose  loss  has  plunged 


THE    CASE    OF   PEYTEL  325 

her  bereaved  husband  into  despair — almost  into  madness. 
Some  early  differences  had  marked,  it  is  true,  the  com- 
mencement of  their  union;  but  these, — which,  as  can  be 
proved  by  evidence,  were  almost  all  the  unhappy  lady's 
fault, — had  happily  ceased,  to  give  place  to  sentiments 
far  more  delightful  and  tender.  Gentlemen,  JNIadame 
Peytel  bore  in  her  bosom  a  sweet  pledge  of  future  con- 
cord between  herself  and  her  husband:  in  three  brief 
months  she  was  to  become  a  mother. 

"  In  the  exercise  of  his  honourable  profession, — in 
which,  to  succeed,  a  man  must  not  only  have  high  talents, 
but  undoubted  probity, — and,  gentlemen,  Monsieur  Pey- 
tel did  succeed — did  inspire  respect  and  confidence,  as 
you,  his  neighbours,  well  know; — in  the  exercise,  I  say, 
of  his  high  calling,  Monsieur  Peytel,  towards  the  end 
of  October  last,  had  occasion  to  make  a  journey  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  visit  some  of  his  many  clients. 

"  He  travelled  in  his  own  carriage,  his  young  wife  be- 
side him.  Does  this  look  like  want  of  affection,  gentle- 
men? or  is  it  not  a  mark  of  love — of  love  and  paternal 
care  on  his  part  towards  the  being  with  whom  his  lot  in 
life  was  linked, — the  mother  of  his  coming  child, — the 
young  girl,  who  had  everything  to  gain  from  the  union 
with  a  man  of  his  attainments  of  intellect,  his  kind  tem- 
per, his  great  experience,  and  his  high  position?  In 
this  manner  they  travelled,  side  by  side,  lovingly  to- 
gether. Monsieur  Peytel  was  not  a  lawyer  merely,  but 
a  man  of  letters  and  varied  learning;  of  the  noble  and 
sublime  science  of  geology  he  was,  especially,  an  ardent 
devotee." 

( Suppose,  here,  a  short  panegyric  upon  geology.  Al- 
lude to  the  creation  of  this  mighty  world,  and  then, 
naturally,  to  the  Creator.    Fancy  the  conversations  which 


326  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Peytel,  a  religious  man,^  might  have  with  his  young  wife 
upon  the  subject.) 

"  Monsieur  Peytel  had  lately  taken  into  his  service 
a  man  named  Louis  Rey.  Rey  was  a  foundling,  and  had 
passed  many  years  in  a  regiment — a  school,  gentlemen, 
where  much  besides  bravery,  alas!  is  taught;  nay,  where 
the  spirit  which  familiarizes  one  with  notions  of  battle 
and  death,  I  fear,  may  familiarize  one  with  ideas,  too, 
of  murder.  Rey,  a  dashing  reckless  fellow,  from  the 
army,  had  lately  entered  Peytel's  service ;  was  treated  by 
him  with  the  most  singular  kindness;  accompanied  him 
(having  charge  of  another  vehicle)  upon  the  journey 
before  alluded  to ;  and  knew  that  his  master  carried  with 
him  a  considerable  sum  of  money;  for  a  man  like  Rey 
an  enormous  sum,  7,500  francs.  At  midnight  on  the  1st 
of  November,  as  Madame  Peytel  and  her  husband  were 
returning  home,  an  attack  was  made  upon  their  carriage. 
Remember,  gentlemen,  the  hour  at  which  the  attack  was 
made ;  remember  the  sum  of  money  that  was  in  the  car- 
riage ;  and  remember  that  the  Savoy  frontier  is  within  a 
league  of  the  spot  where  the  desperate  deed  was  done." 

Now,  my  dear  Briefless,  ought  not  Monsieur  Pro- 
cureur,  in  common  justice  to  Peytel,  after  he  had  so 
eloquently  proclaimed,  not  the  facts,  but  the  suspicions, 
which  weighed  against  that  worthy,  to  have  given  a 
similar  florid  account  of  the  prisoner's  case?  Instead  of 
this,  you  will  remark,  that  it  is  the  advocate's  endeavour 
to  make  Peytel's  statements  as  uninteresting  in  style  as 
possible;  and  then  he  demolishes  them  in  the  following 
way: — 

"  Scarcely  was  Peytel's  statement  known,  when  the 
common  sense  of  the  public  rose  against  it.    Peytel  had 

'  He  always  went  to  mass;  it  is  in  the  evidence. 


THE   CASE   OF  PEYTEL  327 

commenced  his  story  upon  the  bridge  of  Andert,  over 
the  cold  body  of  his  wife.  On  the  2nd  November  he  had 
developed  it  in  detail,  in  the  presence  of  the  physicians, 
in  the  presence  of  the  assembled  neighbours— of  the  per- 
sons who,  on  the  day  previous  only,  were  his  friends.  Fi- 
nally, he  had  completed  it  in  his  interrogatories,  his  con- 
versations, his  writings,  and  letters  to  the  magistrates; 
and  everywhere  these  words,  repeated  so  often,  were 
only  received  with  a  painful  incredulity.  The  fact  was 
that,  besides  the  singular  character  which  Peytel's  ap- 
pearance, attitude,  and  talk  had  worn  ever  since  the 
event,  there  was  in  his  narrative  an  inexplicable  enigma ; 
its  contradictions  and  impossibilites  w^ere  such,  that  calm 
persons  were  revolted  at  it,  and  that  even  friendship  itself 
refused  to  believe  it." 

Thus  jMr.  Attorney  speaks,  not  for  himself  alone,  but 
for  the  whole  French  public ;  whose  opinions,  of  course, 
he  knows.  Peytel's  statement  is  discredited  everywhere; 
the  statement  which  he  had  made  over  the  cold  body 
of  his  wife— the  monster!  It  is  not  enough  simply  to 
prove  that  the  man  committed  the  murder,  but  to  make 
the  jury  violently  angry  against  him,  and  cause  them 
to  shudder  in  the  jury-box,  as  he  exposes  the  horrid  de- 
tails of  the  crime. 

"  Justice,"  goes  on  Mr.  Substitute  (who  answers  for 
the  feelings  of  everybody),  "  disturbed  by  tJie  pre-occu- 
pations  of  public  opinion,  commenced,  without  delay, 
the  most  active  researches.  The  bodies  of  the  victims 
were  submitted  to  the  investigations  of  men  of  art ;  the 
wounds  and  projectiles  were  examined;  the  place  where 
the  event  took  place  explored  with  care.  The  morality 
of  the  author  of  this  frightful  scene  became  the  object 
of  rigorous  examination ;  the  exigeances  of  the  prisoner, 


328  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

the  forms  affected  by  him,  his  calculating  silence,  and 
his  answers,  coldly  insulting,  were  feeble  obstacles;  and 
justice  at  length  arrived,  by  its  pinidence,  and  by  the  dis- 
coveries it  made,  to  the  most  cruel  point  of  certainty." 
You  see  that  a  man's  demeanour  is  here  made  a  crime 
against  him ;  and  that  Mr.  Substitute  wishes  to  consider 
him  guilty,  because  he  has  actually  the  audacity  to  hold 
his  tongue.  Now  follows  a  touching  description  of  the 
domestic,  Louis  Rey: — 

"  Louis  Rey,  a  child  of  the  Hospital  at  Lyons,  was 
confided,  at  a  very  early  age,  to  some  honest  country 
people,  with  whom  he  stayed  until  he  entered  the  army. 
At  their  house,  and  during  this  long  period  of  time,  his 
conduct,  his  intelligence,  and  the  sweetness  of  his  man- 
ners were  such,  that  the  family  of  his  guardians  became 
to  him  as  an  adopted  family;  and  his  departure  caused 
them  the  most  sincere  affliction.  When  Louis  quitted 
the  army,  he  returned  to  his  benefactors,  and  was  received 
as  a  son.  They  found  him  just  as  they  had  ever  known 
him  "  (I  acknowledge  that  this  pathos  beats  my  humble 
defence  of  Peytel  entirely) ,  "except  that  he  had  learned 
to  read  and  write ;  and  the  certificates  of  his  commandei  3 
proved  him  to  be  a  good  and  gallant  soldier. 

"  The  necessity  of  creating  some  resources  for  himself, 
obliged  him  to  quit  his  friends,  and  to  enter  the  service 
of  JNIonsieur  de  Montrichard,  a  lieutenant  of  gendar- 
merie, from  whom  he  received  fresh  testimonials  of  re- 
gard. Louis,  it  is  true,  might  have  a  fondness  for  wine 
and  a  passion  for  women ;  but  he  had  been  a  soldier,  and 
these  faults  were,  according  to  the  witnesses,  amply  com- 
pensated for  by  his  activity,  his  intelligence,  and  the 
agreeable  manner  in  which  he  performed  his  service.    In 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL  329 

the  month  of  July,  1839,  Rey  quitted,  voluntarily,  the 
service  of  M.  de  JNIontrichard ;  and  Peytel,  about  this 
period,  meeting  him  at  Lyons,  did  not  hesitate  to  at- 
tach him  to  his  service.  Whatever  may  be  the  pris- 
oner's present  language,  it  is  certain  that  up  to  the 
day  of  Louis's  death,  he  served  Peytel  with  diligence 
and  fidelity. 

"  More  than  once  his  master  and  mistress  spoke  well 
of  him.  Everybody  who  has  worked,  or  been  at  the 
house  of  Madame  Peytel,  has  spoken  in  praise  of  his 
character ;  and,  indeed,  it  maj^  be  said,  that  these  testimo- 
nials were  general. 

"  On  the  very  night  of  the  1st  of  November,  and  im- 
mediately after  the  catastrophe,  we  remark  how  Peytel 
begins  to  make  insinuations  against  his  servant ;  and  how 
artfully,  in  order  to  render  them  more  sure,  he  dissemi- 
nates them  through  the  different  parts  of  his  narrative. 
But,  in  the  course  of  the  proceeding,  these  charges  have 
met  with  a  most  complete  denial.  Thus  we  find  the 
disobedient  servant  who,  at  Pont  d'Ain,  refused  to  carry 
the  money-chest  to  his  master's  room,  under  the  pretext 
that  the  gates  of  the  inn  were  closed  securely,  occupied 
wuth  tending  the  horses  after  their  long  journey:  mean- 
while Peytel  was  standing  by,  and  neither  master  nor 
servant  exchanged  a  word,  and  the  witnesses  who  beheld 
them  both  have  borne  testimony  to  the  zeal  and  care  of 
the  domestic. 

"In  like  manner,  we  find  that  the  servant,  who  was  so 
remiss  in  the  morning  as  to  neglect  to  go  to  his  master 
for  orders,  was  ready  for  departure  before  seven  o'clock, 
and  had  eagerly  informed  himself  whether  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Peytel  were  awake;  learning  from  the  maid 
of  the  inn,  that  they  had  ordered  nothing  for  their  break- 


330  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

fast.  This  man,  who  refused  to  carry  with  him  a  cover- 
ing for  the  car,  was,  on  the  contrary,  ready  to  take  off 
his  own  cloak,  and  with  it  shelter  articles  of  small  value ; 
this  man  who  had  been  for  many  days  so  silent  and 
gloomy,  gave,  on  the  contrary,  many  proofs  of  his  gaiety 
—almost  of  his  indiscretion,  speaking,  at  all  the  inns, 
in  terms  of  praise  of  his  master  and  mistress.  The  waiter 
at  the  inn  at  Dauphin  says  he  was  a  tall  young  fellow, 
mild  and  good-natured ;  '  we  talked  for  some  time  about 
horses,  and  such  things ;  he  seemed  to  be  perfectly  natu- 
ral, and  not  pre-occupied  at  all.'  At  Pont  d'Ain,  he 
talked  of  his  being  a  foundling;  of  the  place  where  he 
had  been  brought  up,  and  where  he  had  served;  and 
finally,  at  Rossillon,  an  hour  before  his  death,  he  con- 
versed familiarly  with  the  master  of  the  port,  and  spoke 
on  indifferent  subjects. 

"  All  Peytel's  insinuations  against  his  servant  had 
no  other  end  than  to  show,  in  every  point  of  Rey's  con- 
duct, the  behaviour  of  a  man  who  was  premeditating 
attack.  Of  what,  in  fact,  does  he  accuse  him?  Of  wish- 
ing to  rob  him  of  7,500  francs,  and  of  having  had  re- 
course to  assassination,  in  order  to  effect  the  robbery. 
But,  for  a  premeditated  crime,  consider  what  singular 
improvidence  the  person  showed  who  had  determined 
on  committing  it ;  what  folly  and  what  weakness  there  is 
in  the  execution  of  it. 

"  How  many  insurmountable  obstacles  are  there  in 
the  way  of  committing  and  profiting  by  crime !  On  leav- 
ing Belley,  Louis  Rey,  according  to  Peytel's  statement, 
knowing  that  his  master  would  return  with  money,  pro- 
vided himself  with  a  holster  pistol,  which  Madame  Peytel 
had  once  before  perceived  among  his  effects.  In  Pey- 
tel's cabinet  there  were  some  balls;  four  of  these  were 


THE   CASE   OF  PEYTEL  331 

found  in  Rey's  trunk,  on  the  6th  of  November.  And.  in 
order  to  commit  the  crime,  this  domestic  had  brought 
away  with  him  a  pistol,  and  no  ammunition ;  for  Peytel 
has  informed  us  that  Rey,  an  hour  before  his  departure 
from  JMacon,  purchased  six  balls  at  a  gunsmith's.  To 
gain  his  point,  the  assassin  must  immolate  his  victims; 
for  this,  he  has  only  one  pistol,  knowing,  perfectly  well, 
that  Peytel,  in  all  his  travels,  had  two  on  his  person; 
knowing  that  at  a  late  hour  of  the  night  his  shot  might 
fail  of  effect ;  and  that,  in  this  case,  he  would  be  left  to 
the  mercy  of  his  opponent. 

"  The  execution  of  the  crime  is,  according  to  Peytel's 
account,  still  more  singular.  Louis  does  not  get  off  the 
carriage,  until  Peytel  tells  him  to  descend.  He  does 
not  think  of  taking  his  master's  life  until  he  is  sure  that 
the  latter  has  his  eyes  open.  It  is  dark,  and  the  pair 
are  covered  in  one  cloak;  and  Rey  only  fires  at  them  at 
six  paces'  distance :  he  fires  at  hazard,  without  disquieting 
himself  as  to  the  choice  of  his  victim ;  and  the  soldier,  who 
was  bold  enough  to  undertake  this  double  murder,  has 
not  force  nor  courage  to  consummate  it.  He  flies,  carry- 
ing in  his  hand  a  useless  whip,  with  a  heavy  mantle  on  his 
shoulders,  in  spite  of  the  detonation  of  two  pistols  at  his 
ears,  and  the  rapid  steps  of  an  angry  master  in  pursuit, 
which  ought  to  have  set  him  upon  some  better  means  of 
escape.  And  we  find  this  man,  full  of  youth  and  vigour, 
lying  with  his  face  to  the  ground,  in  the  midst  of  a  public 
road,  falling  without  a  struggle,  or  resistance,  under  the 
blows  of  a  hammer! 

"  And  suppose  the  murderer  had  succeeded  in  his  crim- 
inal projects,  what  fruit  could  he  have  drawn  from  them? 
— Leaving,  on  the  road,  the  two  bleeding  bodies;  obliged 
to  lead  two  carriages  at  a  time,  for  fear  of  discovery ;  not 


332  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

able  to  return  himself,  after  all  the  pains  he  had  taken 
to  speak,  at  every  place  at  which  they  had  stopped,  of 
the  money  which  his  master  was  carrying  with  him ;  too 
prudent  to  appear  alone  at  Belley ;  arrested  at  the  fron- 
tier, by  the  excise  officers,  who  would  present  an  impassa- 
ble barrier  to  him  till  morning, — what  could  he  do,  or 
hope  to  do?  The  examination  of  the  car  has  shown  that 
Rey,  at  the  moment  of  the  crime,  had  neither  linen,  nor 
clothes,  nor  effects  of  any  kind.  There  was  found  in 
his  pockets,  when  the  body  was  examined,  no  passport, 
nor  certificate;  one  of  his  pockets  contained  a  ball,  of 
large  calibre,  which  he  had  shown,  in  play,  to  a  girl,  at 
the  inn  at  Macon,  a  little  horn-handled  knife,  a  snuff- 
box, a  little  packet  of  gunpowder,  and  a  purse,  con- 
taining only  a  halfpenny  and  some  string.  Here  is  all 
the  baggage,  with  which,  after  the  execution  of  his 
homicidal  plan,  Louis  Rey  intended  to  take  refuge  in  a 
foreign  country.^  Beside  these  absurd  contradictions, 
there  is  another  remarkable  fact,  which  must  not  be 
passed  over;  it  is  this: — the  pistol  found  by  Rey  is  of 
antique  form,  and  the  original  owner  of  it  has  been 
found.  He  is  a  curiosity-merchant  at  Lyons;  and, 
though  he  cannot  affirm  that  Peytel  was  the  person  who 
bought  this  pistol  of  him,  he  perfectly  recognizes  Peytel 
as  having  been  a  frequent  customer  at  his  shop! 

"  No,  we  may  fearlessly  affirm  that  Louis  Rey  was 
not  guilty  of  the  crime  which  Peytel  lays  to  his  charge. 
If,  to  those  who  knew  him,  his  mild  and  open  disposi- 
tion, his  military  career,  modest  and  without  a  stain,  the 
touching  regrets  of  his  employers,  are  sufficient  proofs 
of  his  innocence, — the  calm  and  candid  observer,  who 
considers  how  the  crime  was  conceived,  was  executed,  and 
what  consequences  would  have  resulted  from  it,  will  like- 

^  This  sentence  is  taken  from  another  part  of  the  "Acte  d'accusation.'* 


THE  CASE  OF  PEYTEL  333 

wise  acquit  him,  and  free  him  of  the  odious  imputation 
which  Peytel  endeavours  to  cast  upon  his  memory. 

"  But  justice  has  removed  the  veil,  with  which  an 
impious  hand  endeavoured  to  cover  itself.  Already,  on 
the  night  of  the  1st  of  November,  suspicion  was  awak- 
ened by  the  extraordinary  agitation  of  Peytel;  by  those 
excessive  attentions  towards  his  wife,  which  came  so 
late ;  by  that  excessive  and  noisy  grief,  and  by  those  cal- 
culated bursts  of  sorrow,  which  are  such  as  Nature  does 
not  exhibit.  The  criminal,  whom  the  public  conscience 
had  fixed  upon;  the  man  whose  frightful  combinations 
have  been  laid  bare,  and  whose  falsehoods,  step  by  step, 
have  been  exposed,  during  the  proceedings  previous  to 
the  trial;  the  murderer,  at  whose  hands  a  heart-stricken 
family,  and  society  at  large,  demands  an  account  of  the 
blood  of  a  wife;— that  murderer  is  Peytel." 

When,  my  dear  Briefless,  you  are  a  judge  (as  I  make 
no  doubt  you  will  be,  when  you  have  left  off  the  club 
all  night,  cigar-smoking  of  mornings,  and  reading  novels 
in  bed),  will  you  ever  find  it  in  your  heart  to  order  a 
fellow-sinner's  head  off  upon  such  evidence  as  this?  Be- 
cause a  romantic  Substitut  du  Procureur  de  Roi  chooses 
to  compose  and  recite  a  little  drama,  and  draw  tears 
from  juries,  let  us  hope  that  severe  Rhadamanthine 
judges  are  not  to  be  melted  by  such  trumpery.  One 
wants  but  the  description  of  the  characters  to  render  the 
piece  complete,  as  thus: — 

Personages.  Costumes. 

Habillement  com- 
plet  de  notaire  per- 

Sebastien  Peytel    Meurtrier    (  fide :     figure     pale, 

barbe     noire,     che- 
veux  noirs. 


334         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Personages.  Costumes. 

Soldat  retire,  bon,A 
brave,  franc,  jovial,  I       Costume         ordi- 
aimant    le    vin,    les  1  naire ;    il    porte    sur 
femmes,    la     gaiete,  I  ses  epaules  une  cou- 
ses  maitres  surtout ;  I  verture  de  cheval. 
vrai  Fran9ais,  enfin.  / 

{Lieutenant   de   gen- 
darmerie. 
Felicite      d'Alca-J  Femme     et     victime 

ZAR     (  de  Peytel. 

Medecins,  Villageois,  Filles  d'Auberge,  Gar^ons  d'Ecurie,  &c. 

&c. 

La  scene  se  passe  sur  le  pont  d'Andert,  entre  Macon  et  Belley. 
II  est  minuit.  La  pluie  tombe:  les  tonnerres  grondent.  Le  ciel 
est  convert  de  nuages,  et  sillonne  d'eclairs. 

All  these  personages  are  brought  into  play  in  the  Pro- 
cureur's  drama;  the  villagers  come  in  with  their  chorus; 
the  old  lieutenant  of  gendarmes  with  his  suspicions; 
Key's  frankness  and  gaiety,  the  romantic  circumstances 
of  his  birth,  his  gallantry  and  fidehty,  are  all  introduced, 
in  order  to  form  a  contrast  with  Peytel,  and  to  call  down 
the  jury's  indignation  against  the  latter.  But  are  these 
proofs?  or  anything  like  proofs?  And  the  suspicions, 
that  are  to  serve  instead  of  proofs,  what  are  they? 

"  My  servant,  Louis  Rey,  was  very  sombre  and  re- 
served," says  Peytel ;  "  he  refused  to  call  me  in  the 
morning,  to  carry  my  money-chest  to  my  room,  to  cover 
the  open  car  when  it  rained."  The  Prosecutor  disproves 
this  by  stating  that  Rey  talked  with  the  inn  maids  and 
servants,  asked  if  his  master  was  up,  and  stood  in  the 
inn-yard,  grooming  the  horses,  with  his  master  by  his 
side,  neither  speaking  to  the  other.  Might  he  not  have 
talked  to  the  maids,  and  yet  been  sombre  when  speaking 


THE   CASE   OF  PEYTEL  335 

to  his  master?  JNIight  he  not  have  neglected  to  call  his 
master,  and  yet  have  asked  whether  he  was  awake? 
JNIight  he  not  have  said  that  the  inn  gates  were  safe, 
out  of  hearing  of  the  ostler  witness?  INIr.  Substitute's 
answers  to  Peytel's  statements  are  no  answer  at  all. 
Every  word  Peytel  said  might  be  true,  and  yet  Louis 
Rey  might  not  have  committed  the  murder;  or  every 
word  might  have  been  false,  and  yet  Louis  Rey  might 
have  committed  the  murder. 

"  Then,"  says  Mr.  Substitute,  "  how  many  obstacles 
are  there  to  the  commission  of  the  crime?  And  these 
are — 

"  1.  Rey  provided  himself  with  one  holster  pistol,  to 
kill  two  people,  knowing  well  that  one  of  them  had  al- 
ways a  brace  of  pistols  about  him. 

"  2.  He  does  not  think  of  firing  until  his  master's 
eyes  are  open:  fires  at  six  paces,  not  caring  at  whom  he 
fires,  and  then  runs  away. 

"  3.  He  could  not  have  intended  to  kill  his  master, 
because  he  had  no  passport  in  his  pocket,  and  no  clothes ; 
and  because  he  must  have  been  detained  at  the  frontier 
until  morning;  and  because  he  would  have  had  to  drive 
two  carriages,  in  order  to  avoid  suspicion. 

"  4.  And,  a  most  singular  circumstance,  the  very 
pistol  which  was  found  by  his  side  had  been  bought  at  the 
shop  of  a  man  at  Lyons,  who  perfectly  recognized  Pey- 
tel as  one  of  his  customers,  though  he  could  not  say  he 
had  sold  that  particular  weapon  to  Peytel." 

Does  it  follow,  from  this,  that  Louis  Rey  is  not  the 
murderer,  much  more,  that  Peytel  is?  Look  at  argu- 
ment No.  1.  Rey  had  no  need  to  kill  two  people:  he 
wanted  the  money,  and  not  the  blood.  Suppose  he  had 
killed  Peytel,  would  he  not  have  mastered  Madame  Pey- 


336         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

tel  easily?— a  weak  woman,  in  an  excessively  delicate  sit- 
uation, incapable  of  much  energy,  at  the  best  of  times. 

2.  "  He  does  not  fire  till  he  knows  his  master's  eyes 
are  open."  Why,  on  a  stormy  night,  does  a  man  driving 
a  carriage  go  to  sleep?  Was  Rey  to  wait  until  his  mas- 
ter snored?  "  He  fires  at  six  paces,  not  caring  whom  he 
hits;  "—and  might  not  this  happen  too?  The  night  is 
not  so  dark  but  that  he  can  see  his  master,  in  his  usual 
place,  driving.  He  fires  and  hits — whom?  Madame 
Peytel,  who  had  left  her  place,  and  was  wrapped  up  with 
Peytel  in  his  cloak.  She  screams  out,  "  Husband,  take 
your  pistols."  Rey  knows  that  his  master  has  a  brace, 
thinks  that  he  has  hit  the  wrong  person,  and,  as  Peytel 
fires  on  him,  runs  away.  Peytel  follows,  hammer  in 
hand;  as  he  comes  up  with  the  fugitive,  he  deals  him  a 
blow  on  the  back  of  the  head,  and  Rey  falls— his  face 
to  the  ground.  Is  there  anything  unnatural  in  this 
story? — anything  so  monstrously  unnatural,  that  is,  that 
it  might  not  be  true? 

3.  These  objections  are  absurd.  Why  need  a  man 
have  change  of  linen?  If  he  had  taken  none  for  the 
journey,  why  should  he  want  any  for  the  escape?  Why 
need  he  drive  two  carriages? — He  might  have  driven 
both  into  the  river,  and  INIrs.  Peytel  in  one.  Why  is 
he  to  go  to  the  douane,  and  thrust  himself  into  the  very 
jaws  of  danger?  Are  there  not  a  thousand  ways  for  a 
man  to  pass  a  frontier?  Do  smugglers,  when  they  have 
to  pass  from  one  country  to  another,  choose  exactly  those 
spots  where  a  police  is  placed? 

And,  finally,  the  gunsmith  of  Lyons,  who  knows  Pey- 
tel quite  well,  cannot  say  that  he  sold  the  pistol  to  him; 
that  is,  he  did  7iot  sell  the  pistol  to  him;  for  you  have 
only  one  man's  word,  in  this  case    (Peytel's),  to  the 


THE   CASE   OF  PEYTEL  337 

contrary ;  and  the  testimony,  as  far  as  it  goes,  is  in  his  fa- 
vour. I  say,  my  lud,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  that 
these  objections  of  my  learned  friend,  who  is  engaged 
for  the  Crown,  are  absurd,  frivolous,  monstrous ;  that  to 
suspect  away  the  life  of  a  man  upon  such  suppositions 
as  these,  is  wicked,  illegal,  and  inhuman;  and,  what  is 
more,  that  Louis  Rey,  if  he  wanted  to  commit  the  crime 
— if  he  wanted  to  possess  himself  of  a  large  sum  of 
money,  chose  the  best  time  and  spot  for  so  doing ;  and,  no 
doubt,  would  have  succeeded,  if  Fate  had  not,  in  a  won- 
derful manner,  caused  Madame  Peytel  to  take  her  hus- 
band's place,  and  receive  the  ball  intended  for  him  in  her 
own  head. 

But  whether  these  suspicions  are  absurd  or  not,  hit  or 
miss,  it  is  the  advocate's  duty,  as  it  appears,  to  urge 
them.  He  wants  to  make  as  unfavourable  an  impression 
as  possible  with  regard  to  Peytel's  character;  he,  there- 
fore, must,  for  contrast's  sake,  give  all  sorts  of  praise 
to  his  victim,  and  awaken  every  sympathy  in  the  poor 
fellow's  favour.  Having  done  this,  as  far  as  lies  in  his 
power,  having  exaggerated  every  circumstance  that  can 
be  unfavourable  to  Peytel,  and  given  his  own  tale  in 
the  baldest  manner  possible — having  declared  that 
Peytel  is  the  murderer  of  his  wife  and  servant,  the 
Crown  now  proceeds  to  back  this  assertion,  by  show- 
ing what  interested  motives  he  had,  and  by  relat- 
ing, after  its  own  fashion,  the  circumstances  of  his  mar- 
riage. 

They  may  be  told  briefly  here.  Peytel  was  of  a  good 
familv,  of  Macon,  and  entitled,  at  his  mother's  death, 
to  a  considerable  property.  He  had  been  educated  as  a 
notary,  and  had  lately  purchased  a  business,  in  that  line, 
in  Belley,  for  which  he  had  paid  a  large  sum  of  money ; 


338  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

part  of  the  sum,  15,000  francs,  for  which  he  had  given 
bills,  was  still  due. 

Near  Belley,  Peytel  first  met  Felicite  Alcazar,  who 
was  residing  with  her  brother-in-law.  Monsieur  de  Mont- 
richard;  and,  knowing  that  the  young  lady's  fortune 
was  considerable,  he  made  an  offer  of  marriage  to  the 
brother-in-law,  who  thought  the  match  advantageous, 
and  communicated  on  the  subject  with  Felicite's  mother, 
JMadame  Alcazar,  at  Paris.  After  a  time  Peytel  went 
to  Paris,  to  press  his  suit,  and  was  accepted.  There 
seems  to  have  been  no  affectation  of  love  on  his  side ;  and 
some  little  repugnance  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  who 
yielded,  however,  to  the  wishes  of  her  parents,  and  was 
married.  The  parties  began  to  quarrel  on  the  very  day 
of  the  marriage,  and  continued  their  disputes  almost  to 
the  close  of  the  unhappy  connection.  Felicite  was  half 
blind,  passionate,  sarcastic,  clumsy  in  her  person  and 
manners,  and  ill  educated;  Peytel,  a  man  of  consider- 
able intellect  and  pretensions,  Avho  had  lived  for  some 
time  at  Paris,  where  he  had  mingled  with  good  literary 
society.  The  lady  was,  in  fact,  as  disagreeable  a  person 
as  could  well  be,  and  the  evidence  describes  some  scenes 
which  took  place  between  her  and  her  husband,  showing 
how  deeply  she  must  have  mortified  and  enraged  him. 

A  charge  very  clearly  made  out  against  Peytel,  is 
that  of  dishonesty;  he  procured  from  the  notary  of 
whom  he  bought  his  place  an  acquittance  in  full, 
whereas  there  were  15,000  francs  owing,  as  we  have 
seen.  He  also,  in  the  contract  of  marriage,  which  was 
to  have  resembled,  in  all  respects,  that  between  Mon- 
sieur Broussais  and  another  Demoiselle  Alcazar,  caused 
an  alteration  to  be  made  in  his  favour,  which  gave  him 
command  over  his  wife's  funded  property,  without  fur- 


THE    CASE    OF   PEYTEL  339 

nishing  the  guarantees  by  which  the  other  son-in-law 
was  bound.  And,  almost  immediately  after  his  mar- 
riage, Peytel  sold  out  of  the  funds  a  sum  of  50,000 
francs,  that  belonged  to  his  wife,  and  used  it  for  his 
own  purposes. 

About  two  months  after  his  marriage,  Peytel  pressed 
his  wife  to  make  he?'  will.  He  had  made  his,  he  said, 
leaving  everything  to  her,  in  case  of  his  death :  after  some 
parley,  the  poor  thing  consented.^  This  is  a  cruel  sus- 
picion against  him;  and  Mr.  Substitute  has  no  need  to 
enlarge  upon  it.  As  for  the  previous  fact,  the  dishonest 
statement  about  the  15,000  francs,  there  is  nothing  mur- 
derous in  that — nothing  which  a  man  very  eager  to  make 
a  good  marriage  might  not  do.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  the  suppression,  in  Peytel's  marriage  contract,  of  the 
clause  to  be  found  in  Broussais's,  placing  restrictions 
upon  the  use  of  the  wife's  money.  Mademoiselle  d'Alca- 
zar's  friends  read  the  contract  before  they  signed  it,  and 
might  have  refused  it,  had  they  so  pleased. 

After  some  disputes,  which  took  place  between  Peytel 
and  his  wife  (there  were  continual  quarrels,  and  con- 
tinual letters  passing  between  them  from  room  to  room) , 
the  latter  was  induced  to  write  him  a  couple  of  exagger- 
ated letters,  swearing  "  by  the  ashes  of  her  father  "  that 

^  "  Peytel,"  says  the  act  of  accusation,  "  did  not  fail  to  see  the  danger  which 
would  menace  him,  if  this  will  (which  had  escaped  the  magistrates  in  their 
search  of  Peytel's  papers)  was  discovered.  He,  therefore,  instructed  his  agent 
to  take  possession  of  it,  which  he  did,  and  the  fact  was  not  mentioned  for  sev- 
eral months  afterwards.  Peytel  and  his  agent  were  called  upon  to  explain  the 
circumstance,  but  refused,  and  their  silence  for  a  long  time  interrupted  the  'in- 
struction '  "  (getting  up  of  the  evidence).  "All  that  could  be  obtained  from 
them  was  an  avowal,  that  such  a  will  existed,  constituting  Peytel  his  wife's  sole 
legatee;  and  a  promise,  on  their  parts,  to  produce  it  before  the  court  gave  its 
sentence."  But  why  keep  the  will  secret?  The  anxiety  about  it  was  surely 
absurd  and  unnecessary:  the  whole  of  Madame  Peytel's  family  knew  that  such 
a  will  was  made.  She  had  consulted  her  sister  concerning  it,  who  said— "If 
there  is  no  other  way  of  satisfying  him,  make  the  will;"  and  the  mother, 
when  she  heard  of  it,  cried  out—"  Does  he  intend  to  poison  her  ?  " 


340         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

she  would  be  an  obedient  wife  to  him,  and  entreating  him 
to  comisel  and  direct  her.  These  letters  were  seen  by- 
members  of  the  lady's  famil}^  who,  in  the  quarrels  be- 
tween the  couple,  always  took  the  husband's  part.  They 
were  found  in  Peytel's  cabinet,  after  he  had  been  ar- 
rested for  the  murder,  and  after  he  had  had  full  access 
to  all  his  papers,  of  which  he  destroyed  or  left  as  many 
as  he  pleased.  The  accusation  makes  it  a  matter  of  sus- 
picion against  Peytel,  that  he  should  have  left  these 
letters  of  his  wife's  in  a  conspicuous  situation. 

"  All  these  circumstances,"  says  the  accusation, 
"  throw  a  frightful  light  upon  Peytel's  plans.  The  let- 
ters and  will  of  Madame  Peytel  are  in  the  hands  of  her 
husband.  Three  months  pass  away,  and  this  poor  woman 
is  brought  to  her  home,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  with 
two  balls  in  her  head,  stretched  at  the  bottom  of  her 
carriage,  by  the  side  of  a  peasant. 

"  What  other  than  Sebastian  Peytel  could  have  com- 
mitted this  murder?— whom  could  it  profit?— who  but 
himself  had  an  odious  chain  to  break,  and  an  inheritance 
to  receive?  Why  speak  of  the  servant's  projected  rob- 
bery? The  pistols  found  by  the  side  of  Louis's  body, 
the  balls  bought  by  him  at  Macon,  and  those  discovered 
at  Belley  among  his  effects,  were  only  the  result  of  a 
perfidious  combination.  The  pistol,  indeed,  which  was 
found  on  the  hill  of  Darde,  on  the  night  of  the  1st  of 
November,  could  only  have  belonged  to  Peytel,  and 
must  have  been  thrown  by  him,  near  the  body  of  his 
domestic,  with  the  paper  which  had  before  enveloped  it. 
Who  had  seen  this  pistol  in  the  hands  of  Louis  ?  Among 
all  the  gendarmes,  work-women,  domestics,  employed  by 
Pej^tel  and  his  brother-in-law,  is  there  one  single  witness 
who  had  seen  this  weapon  in  Louis's  possession?    It  is 


THE    CASE    OF   PEYTEL  341 

true  that  Madame  Peytel  did,  on  one  occasion,  speak  to 
M.  de  ]Montrichard  of  a  pistol;  which  had  nothing  to  do, 
however,  with  that  found  near  Louis  Rey." 

Is  this  justice,  or  good  reason?  Just  reverse  the  argu- 
ment, and  apply  it  to  Rey.  "  Who  but  Rey  could  have 
committed  this  murder?— who  but  Rey  had  a  large  sum 
of  money  to  seize  upon? — a  pistol  is  found  by  his  side, 
balls  and  powder  in  his  pocket,  other  balls  in  his  trunks 
at  home.  The  pistol  found  near  his  body  could  not,  in- 
deed, have  belonged  to  Peytel:  did  any  man  ever  see 
it  in  his  possession?  The  very  gunsmith  who  sold  it, 
and  who  knew  Peytel,  would  he  not  have  known  that  he 
had  sold  him  this  pistol  ?  At  his  own  house,  Peytel  has  a 
collection  of  weapons  of  all  kinds;  everybody  has  seen 
them — a  man  who  makes  such  collections  is  anxious  to 
display  them.  Did  any  one  ever  see  this  weapon?— Not 
one.  And  Madame  Peytel  did,  in  her  lifetime,  remark 
a  pistol  in  the  valet's  possession.  She  was  short-sighted, 
and  could  not  particularize  what  kind  of  pistol  it  was; 
but  she  spoke  of  it  to  her  husband  and  her  brother-in- 
law."  This  is  not  satisfactory,  if  you  please;  but, 
at  least,  it  is  as  satisfactory  as  the  other  set  of  supposi- 
tions. It  is  the  very  chain  of  argument  which  would 
have  been  brought  against  Louis  Rey  by  this  very 
same  compiler  of  the  act  of  accusation,  had  Rey  sur- 
vived, instead  of  Peytel,  and  had  he,  as  most  undoubt- 
edly would  have  been  the  case,  been  tried  for  the 
murder. 

This  argument  was  shortly  put  by  Peytel's  counsel: 
—"If  Peytel  had  been  hilled  hij  Bey  in  the  struggle, 
would  you  not  have  found  Rey  guilty  of  the  murder  of 
his  master  and  mistress?  "  It  is  such  a  dreadful  di- 
lemma, that  I  wonder  how  judges  and  lawyers  could 


342  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

have  dared  to  persecute  Peytel  in  the  manner  which  they 
did.' 

After  the  act  of  accusation,  which  lays  down  all  the 
suppositions  against  Peytel  as  facts,  which  will  not  ad- 
mit the  truth  of  one  of  the  prisoner's  allegations  in  his 
own  defence,  comes  the  trial.  The  judge  is  quite  as  im- 
partial as  the  preparer  of  the  indictment,  as  will  be  seen 
by  the  following  specimens  of  his  interrogatories:— 

Judge.  "  The  act  of  accusation  finds  in  your  state- 
ment contradictions,  improbabilities,  impossibilities. 
Thus  your  domestic,  who  had  determined  to  assassinate 
you,  in  order  to  rob  you,  and  who  must  have  calculated 
upon  the  consequence  of  a  failure,  had  neither  passport 
nor  money  upon  him.  This  is  very  unlikely ;  because  he 
could  not  have  gone  far  with  only  a  single  halfpenny, 
which  was  all  he  had." 

Prisoner.  "  My  servant  was  known,  and  often  passed 
the  frontier  without  a  passport." 

Judge.  "  Your  domestic  had  to  assassinate  two  per- 
sons, and  had  no  weapon  but  a  single  pistol.  He  had  no 
dagger;  and  the  only  thing  found  on  him  was  a  knife." 

Prisoner.  "  In  the  car  there  were  several  turner's 
implements,  which  he  might  have  used." 

Judge.  "  But  he  had  not  those  arms  upon  him,  be- 
cause you  pursued  him  immediately.  He  had,  accord- 
ing to  you,  only  this  old  pistol." 

Prisoner.    "  I  have  nothing  to  say." 

Judge.  "  Your  domestic,  instead  of  flying  into  woods, 
which  skirt  the  road,  ran  straight  forward  on  the  road 
itself:  this,  again,  is  very  unlikely." 

Prisoner.  "  This  is  a  conjecture  I  could  answer  by 
another  conjecture;  I  can  only  reason  on  the  facts." 

Judge.    "  How  far  did  you  pursue  him?  " 


THE    CASE    OF   PEYTEL  343 

Prisoner.    "  I  don't  know  exactly." 

Judge.    "  You  said,  'two  hundred  paces.'  " 

No  answer  from  the  prisoner. 

Judge.  "  Your  domestic  was  young,  active,  robust, 
and  tall.  He  was  ahead  of  you.  You  were  in  a  carriage, 
from  which  you  had  to  descend:  you  had  to  take  your 
pistols  from  a  cushion,  and  then  your  hammer; — how 
are  we  to  believe  that  you  could  have  caught  him,  if  he 
ran  ?    It  is  impossible.^' 

Prisoner.  "  I  can't  explain  it:  I  think  that  Rey  had 
some  defect  in  one  leg.  I,  for  my  part,  run  tolerably 
fast." 

Judge.  "  At  what  distance  from  him  did  you  fire 
your  first  shot?  " 

Prisoner.    "  I  can't  tell." 

Judge.  "Perhaps  he  was  not  running  when  you 
fired." 

Prisoner.    "  I  saw  him  running." 

Judge.    "  In  what  position  was  your  wife? " 

Prisoner.  "  She  was  leaning  on  my  left  arm,  and  the 
man  was  on  the  right  side  of  the  carriage." 

Judge.  "  The  shot  must  have  been  fired  a  bout  por- 
tant,  because  it  burned  the  eyebrows  and  lashes  entirely. 
The  assassin  must  have  passed  his  pistol  across  your 
breast." 

Prisoner.  "The  shot  was  not  fired  so  close;  I  am 
convinced  of  it:  professional  gentlemen  will  prove 
it." 

Judge.  "That  is  what  you  pretend,  because  you 
understand  perfectly  the  consequences  of  admitting  the 
fact.  Your  wife  was  hit  with  two  balls — one  striking 
downwards,  to  the  right,  by  the  nose,  the  other  going 
horizontally  through  the  cheek,  to  the  left." 


344         THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

Prisoner.  "  The  contrary  will  be  shown  by  the  wit- 
nesses called  for  the  purpose." 

Judge.  "It  is  a  very  unlucky  comhination  for  you 
that  these  balls,  which  went,  you  say,  from  the  same 
pistol,  should  have  taken  two  diiFerent  directions." 

Prisoner.  "  I  can't  dispute  about  the  various  com- 
binations of  fire-arms— professional  persons  will  be 
heard." 

Judge.  "  According  to  your  statement,  your  wife 
said  to  you,  '  My  poor  husband,  take  your  pistols.'  " 

Prisoner.    "  She  did." 

Judge.    "  In  a  manner  quite  distinct?  " 

Prisoner.    "  Yes." 

Judge.  "So  distinct  that  you  did  not  fancy  she  was 
hit? " 

Prisoner.    "  Yes;  that  is  the  fact." 

Judge.  "Here,  again,  is  an  impossibility;  and  nothing 
is  more  precise  than  the  declaration  of  the  medical  men. 
They  affirm  that  your  wife  could  not  have  spoken— their 
report  is  unanimous." 

Prisoner.  "  I  can  only  oppose  to  it  quite  contrary 
opinions  from  professional  men,  also:  you  must  hear 
them." 

Judge.  "  What  did  your  wife  do  next?  " 

*'it  ^  ^  ^ 

'T^  'J*  'I'  I* 

Judge.  "  You  deny  the  statements  of  the  witnesses:  " 
(they  related  to  Peytel's  demeanour  and  behaviour, 
which  the  judge  wishes  to  show  were  very  unusual; 
— and  what  if  they  were?)  "  Here,  however,  are  some 
mute  witnesses,  whose  testimony,  you  will  not  perhaps 
refuse.  Near  Louis  Rey's  body  was  found  a  horse- 
cloth, a  pistol,  and  a  whip.  *  *  Your  domestic  must 
have  had  this  cloth  upon  him  when  he  went  to  assassinate 


THE    CASE   OE   PEYTEL  345 

you:  it  was  wet  and  heavy.  An  assassin  disencumbers 
himself  of  anything  that  is  hkely  to  impede  him,  es- 
pecially when  he  is  going  to  struggle  with  a  man  as  young 
as  himself." 

Prisoner.  "  ]VIy  servant  had,  I  believe,  this  covering 
on  his  body ;  it  might  be  useful  to  him  to  keep  the  prim- 
ing of  his  pistol  dry." 

The  president  caused  the  cloth  to  be  opened,  and 
showed  that  there  was  no  hook,  or  tie,  by  which  it  could 
he  held  together;  and  that  Rey  must  have  held  it  with 
one  hand,  and,  in  the  other,  his  whip,  and  the  pistol  with 
which  he  intended  to  commit  the  crime;  which  was  im- 
possible. 

Prisoner.    "  These  are  only  conjectures." 

And  what  conjectures,  my  God!  upon  which  to  take 
away  the  life  of  a  man.  Jeffreys,  or  Fouquier  Tinville, 
could  scarcely  have  dared  to  make  such.  Such  prejudice, 
such  bitter  persecution,  such  priming  of  the  jury,  such 
monstrous  assumptions  and  unreason — fancy  them  com- 
ing from  an  impartial  judge!  The  man  is  worse  than 
the  public  accuser. 

"  Rey,"  says  the  Judge,  "  could  not  have  committed 
the  murder,  because  he  had  no  money  in  his  pocket,  to 
fly,  in  case  of  failure."  And  what  is  the  precise  sum  that 
his  lordship  thinks  necessary  for  a  gentleman  to  have, 
before  he  makes  such  an  attempt?  Are  the  men  who 
murder  for  money,  usually  in  possession  of  a  certain 
independence  before  they  begin?  How  much  money 
was  Rey,  a  servant,  who  loved  wine  and  women,  had 
been  stopping  at  a  score  of  inns  on  the  road,  and  had, 
probably,  an  annual  income  of  400  francs, — how  much 
money  was  Rey  likely  to  have? 

'^'Your  servant  had  to  assassinate  two  persons."    This 


346  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

I  have  mentioned  before.  Why  had  he  to  assassinate 
two  persons/  when  one  was  enough?  If  he  had  killed 
Peytel,  could  he  not  have  seized  and  gagged  his  wife 
immediately? 

''Your  domestic  ran  straight  forward^,  instead  of  tak- 
ing to  the  woods,  hy  the  side  of  the  road:  this  is  very 
unlikely/*  How  does  his  worship  know?  Can  any 
judge,  however  enlightened,  tell  the  exact  road  that  a 
man  will  take,  who  has  just  missed  a  coup  of  murder, 
and  is  pursued  by  a  man  who  is  firing  pistols  at  him? 
And  has  a  judge  a  right  to  instruct  a  jury  in  this  way,  as 
to  what  they  shall,  or  shall  not,  believe? 

"  You  have  to  run  after  an  active  man,  who  has  the 
start  of  you:  to  jump  out  of  a  carriage;  to  take  your  pis- 
tols ;  and  then,  your  hammer.  This  is  impossible."  By 
heavens !  does  it  not  make  a  man's  blood  boil,  to  read  such 
blundering,  blood-seeking  sophistry?  This  man,  when 
it  suits  him,  shows  that  Key  would  be  slow  in  his  mo- 
tions; and  when  it  suits  him,  declares  that  Rey  ought 
to  be  quick ;  declares  ex  cathedra,  what  pace  Rey  should 
go,  and  what  direction  he  should  take ;  shows,  in  a  breath, 
that  he  must  have  run  faster  than  Peytel ;  and  then,  that 
he  could  not  run  fast,  because  the  cloak  clogged  him; 
settles  how  he  is  to  be  dressed  when  he  commits  a  mur- 
der, and  what  money  he  is  to  have  in  his  pocket;  gives 
these  impossible  suppositions  to  the  jury,  and  tells  them 
that  the  previous  statements  are  impossible ;  and,  finally, 
informs  them  of  the  precise  manner  in  which  Rey  must 
have  stood  holding  his  horse-cloth  in  one  hand,  his  whip 
and  pistol  in  the  other,  when  he  made  the  supposed 
attempt  at  murder.     Now,  what  is  the  size  of  a  horse- 

^  M.  Balzac's  theory  of  the  case  is,  that  Rey  had  intrigued  with  Madame 
Peytel;  having  known  her  previous  to  her  marriage,  when  she  was  staying  in 
the  house  of  her  brother-in-law,  Monsieur  de  Montrichard,  where  Rey  had  been 
a  servant. 


THE    CASE   OF   PEYTEL  347 

cloth?  Is  it  as  big  as  a  pocket-handkerchief?  Is  there 
no  possibihty  that  it  might  hang  over  one  shoulder :  that 
the  whip  should  be  held  under  that  very  arm?  Did  you 
never  see  a  carter  so  carry  it,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  all 
the  while?  Is  it  monstrous,  abhorrent  to  nature,  that  a 
man  should  fire  a  pistol  from  under  a  cloak  on  a  rainy 
day? — that  he  should,  after  firing  the  shot,  be  frightened, 
and  run;  run  straight  before  him,  with  the  cloak  on  his 
shoulders,  and  the  weapon  in  his  hand  ?  Peytel's  story  is 
possible,  and  very  possible ;  it  is  almost  probable.  Allow 
that  Rey  had  the  cloth  on,  and  you  allow  that  he  must 
have  been  clogged  in  his  motions ;  that  Peytel  may  have 
come  up  with  him — felled  him  with  a  blow  of  the  ham- 
mer: the  doctors  say  that  he  would  have  so  fallen 
by  one  blow — he  would  have  fallen  on  his  face,  as 
he  was  found:  the  paper  might  have  been  thi*ust 
into  his  breast,  and  tumbled  out  as  he  fell.  Cir- 
cumstances far  more  impossible  have  occurred  ere  this; 
and  men  have  been  hanged  for  them,  who  were  as  inno- 
cent of  the  crime  laid  to  their  charge  as  the  judge  on  the 
bench,  who  convicted  them. 

In  like  manner,  Peytel  may  not  have  committed  the 
crime  charged  to  him;  and  Mr.  Judge,  with  his  argu- 
ments as  to  possibilities  and  impossibilities, — Mr.  Pub- 
lic Prosecutor,  with  his  romantic  narrative  and  inflam- 
matory harangues  to  the  jury,— may  have  used  all  these 
powers  to  bring  to  death  an  innocent  man.  From  the 
animus  with  which  the  case  had  been  conducted  from 
beginning  to  end,  it  was  easy  to  see  the  result.  Here  it 
is,  in  the  words  of  the  provincial  paper: — 

"  Bourg,  28  October,  1839. 

"  The  condemned  Peytel  has  just  undergone  his  pun- 
ishment, which  took  place  four  days  before  the  anni- 


348  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

versary  of  his  crime.  The  terrible  drama  of  the  bridge 
of  Andert,  which  cost  the  Hfe  of  two  persons,  has  just 
terminated  on  the  scaffold.  Midday  had  just  sounded 
on  the  clock  of  the  Palais :  the  same  clock  tolled  midnight 
when,  on  the  30th  of  August,  his  sentence  was  pro- 
nounced. 

"  Since  the  rejection  of  his  appeal  in  Cassation,  on 
which  his  principal  hopes  were  founded,  Peytel  spoke 
little  of  his  petition  to  the  King.  The  notion  of  transpor- 
tation was  that  which  he  seemed  to  cherish  most.  How- 
ever, he  made  several  inquiries  from  the  gaoler  of  the 
prison,  when  he  saw  him  at  meal-time,  with  regard  to 
the  place  of  execution,  the  usual  hour,  and  other  details 
on  the  subject.  From  that  period,  the  words  'Chamj)  de 
Foire'  (the  fair-field,  where  the  execution  was  to  be 
held,)  were  frequently  used  by  him  in  conversation. 

"  Yesterday,  the  idea  that  the  time  had  arrived  seemed 
to  be  more  strongly  than  ever  impressed  upon  him;  es- 
pecially after  the  departure  of  the  cure,  who  latterly  had 
been  with  him  every  day.  The  documents  connected 
with  the  trial  had  arrived  in  the  morning.  He  was  ig- 
norant of  this  circumstance,  but  sought  to  discover  from 
his  guardians  what  they  tried  to  hide  from  him;  and  to 
find  out  whether  his  petition  was  rejected,  and  when 
he  was  to  die. 

"  Yesterday,  also,  he  had  written  to  demand  the  pres- 
ence of  his  counsel,  M.  Margerand,  in  order  that  he 
might  have  some  conversation  with  him,  and  regulate  his 

affairs,  before  he ;  he  did  not  write  down  the  word, 

but  left  in  its  place  a  few  points  of  the  pen. 

"  In  the  evening,  whilst  he  was  at  supper,  he  begged 
earnestly  to  be  allowed  a  little  wax-candle,  to  finish 
what  he  was  writing:  otherwise,  he  said.  Time  might 


THE    CASE    OF   PEYTEL  349 

fail.  This  was  a  new,  indirect  manner  of  repeating  his 
ordinary  question.  As  hght,  up  to  that  evening,  had 
been  refused  him,  it  was  thought  best  to  deny  him  in  this, 
as  in  former  instances;  otherwise  his  suspicions  might 
have  been  confirmed.    The  keeper  refused  his  demand. 

"  This  morning,  ]\Ionday,  at  nine  o'clock,  the  Greffier 
of  the  Assize  Court,  in  fulfilment  of  the  painful  duty 
which  the  law  imposes  upon  him,  came  to  the  prison,  in 
company  with  the  cure  of  Bourg,  and  announced  to  the 
convict  that  his  petition  was  rejected,  and  that  he  had 
only  three  hours  to  live.  He  received  this  fatal  news 
with  a  great  deal  of  calmness,  and  showed  himself  to 
be  no  more  affected  than  he  had  been  on  the  trial.  '  I 
am  ready;  but  I  wish  they  had  given  me  four-and- 
twenty  hours'  notice,' — were  all  the  words  he  used. 

"  The  Greffier  now  retired,  leaving  Peytel  alone  with 
the  cure,  who  did  not,  thenceforth,  quit  him.  Peytel 
breakfasted  at  ten  o'clock. 

"  At  eleven,  a  picquet  of  mounted  gendarmerie  and 
infantry  took  their  station  upon  the  place  before  the 
prison,  where  a  great  concourse  of  people  had  already 
assembled.  An  open  car  was  at  the  door.  Before  he 
went  out,  Peytel  asked  the  gaoler  for  a  looking-glass; 
and  having  examined  his  face  for  a  moment,  said,  '  At 
least,  the  inhabitants  of  Bourg  will  see  that  I  have  not 
grown  thin.' 

"  As  twelve  o'clock  sounded,  the  prison  gates  opened, 
an  aide  appeared,  followed  by  Peytel,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  the  cure.  Peytel's  face  was  pale,  he  had  a  long 
black  beard,  a  blue  cap  on  his  head,  and  his  great-coat 
flung  over  his  shoulders,  and  buttoned  at  the  neck. 

"  He  looked  about  at  the  place  and  the  crowd;  he  asked 
if  the  carriage  would  go  at  a  trot;  and  on  being  told 


350  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

that  that  would  be  difficult,  he  said  he  would  prefer 
walking,  and  asked  what  the  road  was.  He  immediately 
set  out,  walking  at  a  firm  and  rapid  pace.  He  was  not 
bound  at  all. 

"  An  immense  crowd  of  people  encumbered  the  two 
streets  through  which  he  had  to  pass  to  the  place  of 
execution.  He  cast  his  eyes  alternately  upon  them  and 
upon  the  guillotine,  which  was  before  him. 

"  Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  Peytel  embraced 
the  cure,  and  bade  him  adieu.  He  then  embraced  him 
again;  perhaps,  for  his  mother  and  sister.  He  then 
mounted  the  steps  rapidly,  and  gave  himself  into  the 
hands  of  the  executioner,  who  removed  his  coat  and  cap. 
He  asked  how  he  was  to  place  himself,  and,  on  a  sign 
being  made,  he  flung  himself  briskly  on  the  plank,  and 
stretched  his  neck.    In  another  moment  he  was  no  more. 

"  The  crowd,  which  had  been  quite  silent,  retired, 
profoundly  moved  by  the  sight  it  had  witnessed.  As 
at  all  executions,  there  was  a  very  great  number  of 
women  present. 

"  Under  the  scaffold  there  had  been,  ever  since  the 
morning,  a  coffin.  The  family  had  asked  for  his  re- 
mains, and  had  them  immediately  buried,  privately: 
and  thus  the  unfortunate  man's  head  escaped  the  model- 
lers in  wax,  several  of  whom  had  arrived  to  take  an 
impression  of  it." 

Down  goes  the  axe ;  the  poor  wretch's  head  rolls  gasp- 
ing into  the  basket;  the  spectators  go  home,  pondering; 
and  Mr.  Executioner  and  his  aides,  have,  in  half  an 
hour,  removed  all  traces  of  the  august  sacrifice,  and  of 
the  altar  on  which  it  had  been  performed.  Say,  Mr. 
Briefless,  do  you  think  that  any  single  person,  meditat- 


THE    CASE    OF   PEYTEL  351 

ing  murder,  would  be  deterred  therefrom  by  beholding 
this— nay,  a  thousand  more  executions?  It  is  not  for 
moral  improvement,  as  I  take  it,  nor  for  opportunity 
to  make  appropriate  remarks  upon  the  punishment  of 
crime,  that  people  make  a  holiday  of  a  killing-day,  and 
leave  their  homes  and  occupations,  to  flock  and  witness 
the  cutting  off  of  a  head.  Do  we  crowd  to  see  INIr. 
Macready  in  the  new  tragedy,  or  Mademoiselle  Elssler 
in  her  last  new  ballet  and  flesh-coloured  stockinet  panta- 
loons, out  of  a  pure  love  of  abstract  poetry  and  beauty; 
or  from  a  strong  notion  that  we  shall  be  excited,  in  dif- 
ferent ways,  by  the  actor  and  the  dancer?  And  so,  as 
we  go  to  have  a  meal  of  fictitious  terror  at  the  tragedy, 
of  something  more  questionable  in  the  ballet,  we  go  for  a 
glut  of  blood  to  the  execution.  The  lust  is  in  every 
man's  nature,  more  or  less.  Did  you  ever  witness  a 
wrestling  or  boxing  match?  The  first  clatter  of  the 
kick  on  the  shins,  or  the  first  drawing  of  blood,  makes 
the  stranger  shudder  a  little;  but  soon  the  blood  is  his 
chief  enjoyment,  and  he  thirsts  for  it  with  a  fierce  de- 
light. It  is  a  fine  grim  pleasure  that  we  have  in  seeing  a 
man  killed ;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  the  organs  of  de- 
structiveness  must  begin  to  throb  and  swell  as  we  wit- 
ness the  delightful,  savage  spectacle. 

Three  or  four  years  back,  when  Fieschi  and  Lacenaire 
were  executed,  I  made  attempts  to  see  the  execution  of 
both;  but  was  disappointed  in  both  cases.  In  the  first 
instance,  the  day  for  Fieschi's  death  was,  purposely, 
kept  secret;  and  he  was,  if  I  remember  rightly,  exe- 
cuted at  some  remote  quarter  of  the  town.  But  it  would 
have  done  a  philanthropist  good,  to  witness  the  scene 
which  we  saw  on  the  morning  when  his  execution  did 
not  take  place. 


352  THE    PARIS    SKETCH    BOOK 

It  was  carnival  time,  and  the  rumour  had  pretty  gen- 
erally been  carried  abroad  that  he  was  to  die  on  that 
morning.  A  friend,  who  accompanied  me,  came  many 
miles,  through  the  mud  and  dark,  in  order  to  be  in  at 
the  death.  We  set  out  before  light,  floundering  through 
the  muddy  Champs  Elysees;  where,  besides,  were  many 
other  persons  floundering,  and  all  bent  upon  the  same 
errand.  We  passed  by  the  Concert  of  JNIusard,  then  held 
in  the  Rue  St.  Honore;  and  round  this,  in  the  wet,  a 
number  of  coaches  were  collected.  The  ball  was  just  up, 
and  a  crowd  of  people,  in  hideous  masquerade,  drunk, 
tired,  dirty,  dressed  in  horrible  old  frippery,  and  daubed 
with  filthy  rouge,  were  trooping  out  of  the  place:  tipsy 
women  and  men,  shrieking,  jabbering,  gesticulating,  as 
French  will  do;  parties  swaggering,  staggering  for- 
wards, arm  in  arm,  reeling  to  and  fro  across  the  street, 
and  yelling  songs  in  chorus:  hundreds  of  these  were 
bound  for  the  show,  and  we  thought  ourselves  lucky  in 
finding  a  vehicle  to  the  execution  place,  at  the  Barriere 
d'Enfer.  As  we  crossed  the  river  and  entered  the  Enfer 
Street,  crowds  of  students,  black  workmen,  and  more 
drunken  devils  from  more  carnival  balls,  were  filling  it; 
and  on  the  grand  place  there  were  thousands  of  these 
assembled,  looking  out  for  Fieschi  and  his  cortege.  We 
waited  and  waited ;  but  alas !  no  fun  for  us  that  morning : 
no  throat-cutting;  no  august  spectacle  of  satisfied  jus- 
tice; and  the  eager  spectators  were  obliged  to  return, 
disappointed  of  their  expected  breakfast  of  blood.  It 
would  have  been  a  fine  scene,  that  execution,  could  it 
but  have  taken  place  in  the  midst  of  the  mad  mounte- 
banks and  tipsy  strumpets  who  had  flocked  so  far  to 
witness  it,  wishing  to  wind  up  the  delights  of  their  car- 
nival by  a  honne-houche  of  a  murder, 


THE    CASE   OF   PEYTEL  353 

The  other  attempt  was  equally  unfortunate.  We  ar- 
rived too  late  on  the  ground  to  be  present  at  the  execu- 
tion of  Lacenaire  and  his  co-mate  in  murder,  Avril. 
But  as  we  came  to  the  ground  (a  gloomy  round  space, 
within  the  barrier— three  roads  lead  to  it;  and,  outside, 
you  see  the  wine-shops  and  restaurateurs'  of  the  barrier 
looking  gay  and  inviting,)  —as  we  came  to  the  ground, 
we  only  found,  in  the  midst  of  it,  a  little  pool  of  ice,  just 
partially  tinged  with  red.  Two  or  three  idle  street-boys 
were  dancing  and  stamping  about  this  pool ;  and  when  I 
asked  one  of  them  whether  the  execution  had  taken  place, 
he  began  dancing  more  madly  than  ever,  and  shrieked 
out  with  a  loud  fantastical,  theatrical  voice,  "  Venez  tons 
Messieurs  et  Dames,  voyez  ici  le  sang  du  monstre  Lace- 
naire, et  de  son  compagnon  le  traitre  Avril,"  or  words 
to  that  effect;  and  straightway  all  the  other  gamins 
screamed  out  the  words  in  chorus,  and  took  hands  and 
danced  round  the  little  puddle. 

O  august  Justice,  your  meal  was  followed  by  a  pretty 
appropriate  grace!  Was  any  man,  who  saw  the  show, 
deterred,  or  frightened,  or  moralized  in  any  way?  He 
had  gratified  his  appetite  for  blood,  and  this  was  all. 
There  is  something  singularly  pleasing,  both  in  the 
amusement  of  execution-seeing,  and  in  the  results.  You 
are  not  only  delightfully  excited  at  the  time,  but  most 
pleasingly  relaxed  afterwards ;  the  mind,  which  has  been 
wound  up  painfully  until  now,  becomes  quite  complacent 
and  easy.  There  is  something  agreeable  in  the  mis- 
fortunes of  others,  as  the  philosopher  has  told  us.  Re- 
mark what  a  good  breakfast  you  eat  after  an  execution ; 
how  pleasant  it  is  to  cut  jokes  after  it,  and  upon  it.  This 
merry,  pleasant  mood  is  brought  on  by  the  blood  tonic. 

But,  for  God's  sake,  if  we  are  to  enjoy  this,  let  us  do 


354  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

so  in  moderation ;  and  let  us,  at  least,  be  sure  of  a  man's 
guilt  before  we  murder  him.  To  kill  him,  even  with 
the  full  assurance  that  he  is  guilty,  is  hazardous  enough. 
Who  gave  you  the  right  to  do  so? — you,  who  cry  out 
against  suicides,  as  impious  and  contrary  to  Christian 
law?  What  use  is  there  in  killing  him?  You  deter  no 
one  else  from  committing  the  crime  by  so  doing :  you  give 
us,  to  be  sure,  half  an  hour's  pleasant  entertainment; 
but  it  is  a  great  question  whether  we  derive  much  moral 
profit  from  the  sight.  If  you  want  to  keep  a  murderer 
from  farther  inroads  upon  society,  are  there  not  plenty 
of  hulks  and  prisons,  God  wot;  treadmills,  galleys,  and 
houses  of  correction  ?  Above  all,  as  in  the  case  of  Sebas- 
tian Peytel  and  his  family,  there  have  been  two  deaths 
already;  was  a  third  death  absolutely  necessary?  and, 
taking  the  fallibility  of  judges  and  lawyers  into  his 
heart,  and  remembering  the  thousand  instances  of  un- 
merited punishment  that  have  been  suffered,  upon  sim- 
ilar and  stronger  evidence,  before,  can  any  man  declare, 
positively  and  upon  his  oath,  that  Peytel  was  guilty,  and 
that  this  was  not  the  third  murder  in  the  family? 


FOUR    IMITATIONS    OF    BERANGER 


LE   ROI   D'YVETOT 

IL  etait  un  roi  d'Yvetot, 
Peu  connu  dans  I'histoire; 
Se  levant  tard,  se  couchant  tot, 

Dormant  fort  bien  sans  gloire, 
Et  couronne  par  Jeanneton 
D'un  simple  bonnet  de  coton, 
Dit-on. 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 
Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'etait  la ! 

II  fesait  ses  quatre  repas 

Dans  son  palais  de  chaume, 
Et  sur  un  ane,  pas  a  pa^, 

Parcourait  son  royaume. 
Joyeux,  simple  et  croyant  le  bien, 
Pour  toute  garde  il  n'avait  rien 
Qu'un  chien. 
Oh !  oh !  oh  !  oh !  ah !  ah !  ah !  ah !  &c. 
j-^a,  ia> 

n  n'avait  de  gout  onereux 

Qu'une  soif  un  peu  vive ; 
Mais,  en  rendant  son  peuple  heureux, 

II  faut  bien  qu'un  roi  vive. 

355 


356  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Lui-meme  a  tabic,  et  sans  suppot, 
Sur  chaque  niuid  levait  un  pot 
D'impot. 
Oh !  oh !  oh !  oh  !  ah !  ah !  ah !  ah !  &c. 

Aux  filles  de  bonnes  maisons 
Comme  il  avait  su  plaire, 
Ses  sujets  avaient  cent  raisons 

De  le  nommer  leur  pere : 
D'ailleurs  il  ne  levait  de  ban 
Que  pour  tircr  quatre  fois  Pan 
Au  blanc. 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  &c. 
La,  la. 

n  n'agrandit  point  ses  etats, 

Fut  un  voisin  commode, 
Et,  modele  des  potentats, 

Prit  le  plaisir  pour  code. 
Ce  n'est  que  lorsqu'il  expira. 
Que  le  peuple  qui  I'enterra 
Pleura. 
Oh !  oh !  oh !  oh !  ah !  ah !  ah !  ah !  &c. 

On  conserve  encor  le  portrait 
De  ce  digne  et  bon  prince; 
C'est  I'enseigne  d'un  cabaret 
Fameux  dans  la  province, 
Les  jours  de  fete,  bien  souvent. 
La  foule  s'ecrie  en  buvant 
Devant : 
Oh !  oh  !  oh !  oh !  ah  !  ah !  ah !  ah ! 
Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'etait  la! 
x^a,  la. 


FOUR   IMITATIONS    OF    BERANGER    357 


THE   KING   OF   YVETOT 

There  was  a  king  of  Yvetot, 

Of  whom  renown  hath  little  said, 
Who  let  all  thoughts  of  glory  go, 

And  dawdled  half  his  days  a-bed ; 
And  every  night,  as  night  came  round. 
By  Jenny,  with  a  nightcap  crowned, 
Slept  very  sound: 
Sing,  ho,  ho,  ho !  and  he,  he,  he ! 
That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

And  every  day  it  came  to  pass. 

That  four  lusty  meals  made  he; 
And,  step  by  step,  upon  an  ass. 

Rode  abroad,  his  realms  to  see; 
And  wherever  he  did  stir, 
What  think  you  was  his  escort,  sir? 
Why,  an  old  cur. 
Sing,  ho,  ho,  ho !  &c. 

If  e'er  he  went  into  excess, 

'Twas  from  a  somewhat  lively  thirst ; 
But  he  who  would  his  subjects  bless. 

Odd's  fish! — must  wet  his  whistle  first; 
And  so  from  every  cask  they  got, 
Our  king  did  to  himself  allot. 
At  least  a  pot. 
Sing,  ho,  ho !  &c. 

To  all  the  ladies  of  the  land, 

A  courteous  king,  and  kind,  was  he; 

The  reason  why  you'll  understand. 
They  named  him  Pater  Patriae. 


358         THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

Each  year  he  called  his  fighting  men, 
And  marched  a  league  from  home,  and  then 
Marched  back  again. 
Sing,  ho,  ho!  &c. 

Neither  by  force  nor  false  pretence. 

He  sought  to  make  his  kingdom  great. 
And  made  (O  princes,  learn  from  hence)  — 

"  Live  and  let  live,"  his  rule  of  state. 
'Twas  only  when  he  came  to  die, 
That  his  people  who  stood  by, 

Were  known  to  cry. 
Sing,  ho,  ho!  &c. 

The  portrait  of  this  best  of  kings 

Is  extant  still,  upon  a  sign 
That  on  a  village  tavern  swings, 

Famed  in  the  country  for  good  wine. 
The  people,  in  their  Sunday  trim. 
Filling  their  glasses  to  the  brim, 
Look  up  to  him. 
Singing,  ha,  ha,  ha !  and  he,  he,  he ! 
That's  the  sort  of  king  for  me. 


THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD 

ANOTHER    VERSION 

There  was  a  king  in  Brentford, — of  whom  no  legends  tell. 
But  who,  without  his  glory, — could  eat  and  sleep  right  well. 
His  Polly's  cotton  nightcap,  —  it  was  his  crown  of  state, 
He  slept  of  evenings  early, — and  rose  of  mornings  late. 


FOUR    IMITATIONS    OF    BERANGER    359 

All  in  a  fine  mud  palace, — each  day  he  took  four  meals, 
And  for  a  guard  of  honour, — a  dog  ran  at  his  heels. 
Sometimes,  to  view  his  kingdoms, — rode  forth  this  monarch  good, 
And  then  a  prancing  jackass — he  royally  bestrode. 

There  were  no  costly  habits — with  which  this  king  was  curst. 
Except  (and  where's  the  harm  on't?) — a  somewhat  lively  thirst; 
But  people  must  pay  taxes, — and  kings  must  have  their  sport, 
So  out  of  every  gallon — His  Grace  he  took  a  quart. 

He  pleased  the  ladies  round  him, — with  manners  soft  and  bland; 
With  reason  good,  they  named  him, — the  father  of  his  land. 
Each  year  his  mighty  armies — marched  forth  in  gallant  show; 
Their  enemies  were  targets, — their  bullets  they  were  tow. 

He  vexed  no  quiet  neighbour, — no  useless  conquest  made, 
But  by  the  laws  of  pleasure, — his  peaceful  realm  he  swayed. 
And  in  the  years  he  reigned, — through  all  this  country  wide, 
There  was  no  cause  for  weeping, — save  when  the  good  man  died. 

The  faithful  men  of  Brentford, — do  still  their  king  deplore. 
His  portrait  yet  is  swinging, — beside  an  alehouse  door. 
And  topers,  tender-hearted, — regard  his  honest  phiz. 
And  envy  times  departed, — that  knew  a  reign  like  his. 


LE  GRENIER 

Je  viens  revoir  I'asile  ou  ma  jeunesse 
De  la  misere  a  subi  les  le9ons. 
J'avais  vingt  ans,  une  folle  maitresse, 
De  francs  amis  et  I'amour  des  chansons 
Bravant  le  monde  et  les  sots  et  les  sages, 
Sans  avenir,  riche  de  mon  printemps, 
Leste  et  joyeux  je  montais  six  etages. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans ! 


360  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

C'est  un  grenier,  point  ne  veux  qu'on  I'ignore. 
La  fut  mon  lit,  bien  chetif  ct  bien  dur; 
La  fut  ma  table;  et  je  retrouve  encore 
Trois  pieds  d'un  vers  charbonnes  sur  le  mur. 
Apparaissez,  plaisirs  de  mon  bel  age, 
Que  d'un  coup  d'aile  a  fustiges  le  temps, 
Vingt  fois  pour  vous  j'ai  mis  ma  montre  en  gage. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans ! 

Lisette  ici  doit  surtout  apparaitre, 

Vive,  jolie,  avec  un  frais  chapeau; 

Deja  sa  main  a  I'etroite  fenetre 

Suspend  son  schal,  en  guise  de  rideau. 

Sa  robe  aussi  va  parcr  ma  couchette ; 

Respecte,  Amour,  ses  plis  longs  et  flottans. 

J'ai  su  depuis  qui  payait  sa  toilette. 

Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans ! 

A  table  un  jour,  jour  de  grande  richesse, 
De  mes  amis  les  voix  brillaicnt  en  choeur, 
Quand  jusqu'ici  monte  un  cri  d'allegresse : 
A  Marengo  Bonaparte  est  vainqueur. 
Le  canon  gronde;  un  autre  chant  commence; 
Nous  celebrons  tant  de  faits  eclatans. 
Les  rois  jamais  n'envahiront  la  France. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans ! 

Quittons  ce  toit  ou  ma  raison  s'enivre. 
Oh!  qu'ils  sont  loin  ces  jours  si  regrettes! 
J'echangerais  ce  qu'il  me  reste  a  vivre 
Contre  un  des  mois  qu'ici  Dieu  m'a  comptes, 
Pour  rever  gloire,  amour,  plaisir,  folic, 
Pour  depenser  sa  vie  en  peu  d'instans, 
D'un  long  espoir  pour  la  voir  embellie. 
Pans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans ! 


FOUR    IMITATIONS    OF    EERAXGER    361 


THE  GARRET 

With  pensive  eyes  the  little  room  I  view, 

Where,  in  my  youth,  I  weathered  it  so  long; 
With  a  wild  mistress,  a  stanch  friend  or  two, 

And  a  light  heart  still  breaking  into  song: 
Making  a  mock  of  life,  and  all  its  cares. 

Rich  in  the  glory  of  my  rising  sun, 
Lightly  I  vaulted  up  four  pair  of  stairs, 

In  the  brave  daj's  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

Yes;  'tis  a  garret — let  him  know't  who  will — 

There  was  my  bed — full  hard  it  was  and  small. 
My  table  there — and  I  decipher  still 

Half  a  lame  couplet  charcoaled  on  the  wall. 
Ye  joys,  that  Time  hath  swept  with  him  away. 

Come  to  mine  eyes,  ye  dreams  of  love  and  fun ; 
For  you  I  pawned  my  watch  how  many  a  day, 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

And  see  my  little  Jessy,  first  of  all; 

She  comes  with  pouting  lips  and  sparkling  eyes ; 
Behold,  how  roguishly  she  pins  her  shawl 

Across  the  narrow  casement,  curtain-wise; 
Now  by  the  bed  her  petticoat  glides  down, 

And  when  did  woman  look  the  worse  in  none? 
I  have  heard  since  who  paid  for  many  a  gown. 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

One  jolly  evening,  when  my  friends  and  I 

Made  happy  music  with  our  songs  and  cheers, 

A  shout  of  triumph  mounted  up  thus  high, 
And  distant  cannon  opened  on  our  ears : 


362         THE   PARIS   SKETCH   BOOK 

We  rise, — we  join  in  the  triumphant  strain, — 
Napoleon  conquers — Austerlitz  is  won — 

Tyrants  shall  never  tread  us  down  again, 
In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

Let  us  begone — the  place  is  sad  and  strange — 

How  far,  far  off,  these  happy  times  appear; 
All  that  I  have  to  live  I'd  gladly  change 

For  one  such  month  as  I  have  wasted  here — 
To  draw  long  dreams  of  beauty,  love,  and  power, 

From  founts  of  hope  that  never  will  outrun, 
And  drink  all  life's  quintessence  in  an  hour. 

Give  me  the  days  when  I  was  twenty-one ! 


ROGER-BONTEMPS 

Aux  gens  atrabilaires 
Pour  exemple  donne, 
En  un  temps  de  miseres 
Roger-Bontemps  est  ne. 
Vivre  obscur  a  sa  guise, 
Narguer  les  mecontens ; 
Eh  gai!   c'est  la  devise 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Du  chapeau  de  son  pere 
Coiffe  dans  les  grands  jours, 
De  roses  ou  de  lierre 
Le  rajeunir  tou jours; 
Mettre  un  manteau  de  bure, 
Vieil  ami  de  vingt  ans ; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  parure 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 


FOUR    IMITATIONS    OF    BERANGER    363 

Posseder  dans  sa  hutte 
Une  table,  un  vieux  lit, 
Des  cartes,  une  flute, 
Un  broc  que  Dieu  remplit ; 
Un  portrait  de  maitresse, 
Un  coffre  et  rien  dedans; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  richesse 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Aux  enfans  de  la  ville 
Montrer  de  petits  jeux; 
Etre  fesseur  habile 
De  contes  graveleux ; 
Ne  parler  que  de  danse 
Et  d'almanachs  chantans ; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  science 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Faute  de  vins  d'elite, 
Sabler  ceux  du  canton : 
Preferer  Marguerite 
Aux  dames  du  grand  ton: 
De  joie  et  de  tendresse 
Remplir  tous  ses  instans; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  sagesse 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Dire  au  ciel:  Je  me  fie, 
Mon  pere,  a  ta  bonte; 
De  ma  philosophie 
Pardonne  le  gaite: 
Que  ma  saison  derniere 
Soit  encore  un  printemps ; 
"  Eh  gai !  c'est  la  priere 

Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 


364         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Vous,  pauvres  plelns  d'envie, 
Vous,  riches  desireux, 
Vous,  dont  le  char  devie 
Apres  un  cours  heureux ; 
Vous,  qui  perdrez  peut-etre 
Des  litres  eclatans, 
Eh  gai !   prenez  pour  maitre 
Le  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 


JOLLY    JACK 

When  fierce  poHtical  debate 

Throughout  the  isle  was  storming. 
And  Rads  attacked  the  throne  and  state. 

And  Tories  the  reforming, 
To  calm  the  furious  rage  of  each, 

And  right  the  land  demented, 
Heaven  sent  us  Jolly  Jack,  to  teach 

The  way  to  be  contented. 


FOUR    IMITATIOXS    OF    BERANGER    365 

Jack's  bed  was  straw,  'twas  warm  and  soft, 

His  chair,  a  three-legged  stool ; 
His  broken  jug  was  emptied  oft, 

Yet,  somehow,  always  full. 
His  mistress'  portrait  decked  the  wall, 

His  mirror  had  a  crack; 
Yet,  gay  and  glad,  though  this  was  all 

His  wealth,  lived  Jolly  Jack. 

To  give  advice  to  avarice. 

Teach  pride  its  mean  condition, 
And  preach  good  sense  to  dull  pretence. 

Was  honest  Jack's  high  mission. 
Our  simple  statesman  found  his  rule 

Of  moral  in  the  flagon. 
And  held  his  philosophic  school 

Beneath  the  "  George  and  Dragon." 

When  village  Solons  cursed  the  Lords, 

And  called  the  malt-tax  sinful, 
Jack  heeded  not  their  angry  words, 

But  smiled,  and  drunk  his  skinful. 
And  when  men  wasted  health  and  life, 

In  search  of  rank  and  riches. 
Jack  marked,  aloof,  the  paltry  strife, 

And  wore  his  threadbare  breeches. 

"  I  enter  not  the  church,"  he  said, 

"  But  I'll  not  seek  to  rob  it ;  " 
So  worthy  Jack  Joe  INIiller  read. 

While  others  studied  Cobbett. 
His  talk  it  was  of  feast  and  fun ; 

His  guide  the  Almanack ; 
From  youth  to  age  thus  gaily  run 

The  life  of  Jolly  Jack. 


366         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

And  when  Jack  prayed,  as  oft  he  would, 

He  humbly  thanked  his  Maker; 
"  I  am,"  said  he,  "  O  Father  good ! 

Nor  Catholic  nor  Quaker: 
Give  each  his  creed,  let  each  proclaim 

His  catalogue  of  curses ; 
I  trust  in  Thee,  and  not  in  them. 

In  Thee,  and  in  Thy  mercies ! 

"  Forgive  me  if,  midst  all  Thy  works, 

No  hint  I  see  of  damning; 
And  think  there's  faith  among  the  Turks, 

And  hope  for  e'en  the  Brahmin. 
Harmless  my  mind  is,  and  my  mirth, 

And  kindly  is  my  laughter ; 
I  cannot  see  the  smiling  earth. 

And  think  there's  hell  hereafter." 

Jack  died ;  he  left  no  legacy, 

Save  that  his  story  teaches : — 
Content  to  peevish  poverty ; 

Humility  to  riches. 
Ye  scornful  great,  ye  envious  small. 

Come,  follow  in  his  track ; 
We  all  were  happier,  if  we  all 

Would  copy  Jolly  Jack. 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  AND  MELODRAMAS 

THERE  are  three  kinds  of  drama  in  France,  which 
you  may  subdivide  as  much  as  you  please. 

There  is  the  old  classical  drama,  well-nigh  dead,  and 
full  time  too:  old  tragedies,  in  which  half-a-dozen  char- 
acters appear,  and  spout  sonorous  Alexandrines  for  half- 
a-dozen  hours.  The  fair  Rachel  has  been  trying  to  re- 
vive this  genre,  and  to  untomb  Racine;  but  be  not 
alarmed,  Racine  will  never  come  to  life  again,  and  cause 
audiences  to  weep  as  of  yore.  Madame  Rachel  can  only 
galvanize  the  corpse,  not  revivify  it.  Ancient  French 
tragedy,  red-heeled,  patched,  and  be-periwigged,  lies 
in  the  grave;  and  it  is  only  the  ghost  of  it  that  we  see, 
which  the  fair  Jewess  has  raised.  There  are  classical 
comedies  in  verse,  too,  wherein  the  knavish  valets,  rakish 
heroes,  stolid  old  guardians,  and  smart,  free-spoken 
serving-women,  discourse  in  Alexandrines,  as  loud  as  the 
Horaces  or  the  Cid.  An  Englishman  will  seldom  recon- 
cile himself  to  the  roulement  of  the  verses,  and  the  pain- 
ful recurrence  of  the  rhymes ;  for  my  part,  I  had  rather 
go  to  Madame  Saqui's,  or  see  Deburau  dancing  on  a 
rope :  his  lines  are  quite  as  natural  and  poetical. 

Then  there  is  the  comedy  of  the  day,  of  which  Mon- 
sieur Scribe  is  the  father.  Good  heavens!  with  what  a 
number  of  gay  colonels,  smart  widows,  and  silly  hus- 
bands has  that  gentleman  peopled  the  play -books.  How 
that  unfortunate  seventh  commandment  has  been  mal- 
treated by  him  and  his  disciples.     You  will  see  four 

367 


368  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

pieces,  at  the  Gymnase,  of  a  night;  and  so  sure  as  you 
see  them,  four  husbands  shall  be  wickedly  used.  When 
is  this  joke  to  cease?  ]Mon  Dieu!  Play -writers  have 
handled  it  for  about  two  thousand  years,  and  the  public, 
like  a  great  baby,  must  have  the  tale  repeated  to  it  over 
and  over  again. 

Finally,  there  is  the  Drama,  that  great  monster  which 
has  sprung  into  life  of  late  years ;  and  which  is  said,  but 
I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  to  have  Shakspeare  for  a 
father.  If  Monsieur  Scribe's  plays  may  be  said  to  be  so 
many  ingenious  examples  how  to  break  one  command- 
ment, the  drame  is  a  grand  and  general  chaos  of  them 
all;  nay,  several  crimes  are  added,  not  prohibited  in  the 
Decalogue,  which  was  written  before  dramas  were.  Of 
the  drama,  Victor  Hugo  and  Dumas  are  the  well-known 
and  respectable  guardians.  Every  piece  Victor  Hugo 
has  written,  since  "  Hernani,"  has  contained  a  monster 
— a  delightful  monster,  saved  by  one  virtue.  There  is 
Triboulet,  a  foolish  monster;  Lucrece  Borgia,  a  maternal 
monster;  JSIary  Tudor,  a  religious  monster;  Monsieur 
Quasimodo,  a  hump-backed  monster;  and  others,  that 
might  be  named,  whose  monstrosities  we  are  induced  to 
pardon — nay,  admiringly  to  witness — because  they  are 
agreeably  mingled  with  some  exquisite  display  of  aiFec- 
tion.  And,  as  the  great  Hugo  has  one  monster  to  each 
play,  the  great  Dumas  has,  ordinarily,  half-a-dozen,  to 
whom  murder  is  nothing;  common  intrigue,  and  sim- 
ple breakage  of  the  before-mentioned  commandment, 
nothing;  but  who  live  and  move  in  a  vast,  delightful 
complication  of  crime,  that  cannot  be  easily  conceived  in 
England,  much  less  described. 

When  I  think  over  the  number  of  crimes  that  I  have 
seen  Mademoiselle  Georges,  for  instance,  commit,  I  am 


FRENCH   DRAMAS  369 

filled  with  wonder  at  her  greatness,  and  the  greatness  of 
the  poets  who  have  conceived  these  charming  horrors 
for  her.  I  have  seen  her  make  love  to,  and  murder,  her 
sons,  in  the  "  Tour  de  Nesle."  I  have  seen  her  poison  a 
company  of  no  less  than  nine  gentlemen,  at  Ferrara,  with 
an  affectionate  son  in  the  number;  I  have  seen  her,  as 
JSIadame  de  Brinvilliers,  kill  off  numbers  of  respectable 
relations  in  the  first  four  acts ;  and,  at  the  last,  be  actually 
burned  at  the  stake,  to  which  she  comes  shuddering, 
ghastly,  barefooted,  and  in  a  white  sheet.  Sweet  excite- 
ment of  tender  sympathies!  Such  tragedies  are  not  so 
good  as  a  real,  downright  execution;  but,  in  point  of 
interest,  the  next  thing  to  it:  with  what  a  number  of 
moral  emotions  do  they  fill  the  breast ;  with  what  a  hatred 
for  vice,  and  yet  a  true  pity  and  respect  for  that  grain  of 
virtue  that  is  to  be  found  in  us  all :  our  bloody,  daughter- 
loving  Brinvilliers ;  our  warm-hearted,  poisonous  Lucre- 
tia  Borgia;  above  all,  what  a  smart  appetite  for  a  cool 
supper  afterwards,  at  the  Cafe  Anglais,  when  the  horrors 
of  the  play  act  as  a  piquant  sauce  to  the  supper ! 

Or,  to  speak  more  seriously,  and  to  come,  at  last,  to 
the  point.  After  having  seen  most  of  the  grand  dramas 
which  have  been  produced  at  Paris  for  the  last  half-dozen 
years,  and  thinking  over  all  that  one  has  seen, — the  fic- 
titious murders,  rapes,  adulteries,  and  other  crimes,  by 
which  one  has  been  interested  and  excited, — a  man  may 
take  leave  to  be  heartily  ashamed  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  has  spent  his  time;  and  of  the  hideous  kind  of 
mental  intoxication  in  which  he  has  permitted  himself  to 
indulge. 

Nor  are  simple  society  outrages  the  only  sort  of  crime 
in  which  the  spectator  of  Paris  plays  has  permitted  him- 
self to  indulge;  he  has  recreated  himself  with  a  deal  of 


370  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

blasphemy  besides,  and  has  passed  many  j^leasant  even- 
ings in  beholding  religion  defiled  and  ridiculed. 

Allusion  has  been  made,  in  a  former  paper,  to  a  fashion 
that  lately  obtained  in  France,  and  which  went  by  the 
name  of  Catholic  reaction ;  and  as,  in  this  happy  country, 
fashion  is  everything,  we  have  had  not  merely  Catholic 
pictures  and  quasi  religious  books,  but  a  number  of 
Catholic  plays  have  been  produced,  very  edifying  to  the 
frequenters  of  the  theatres  or  the  Boulevards,  who  have 
learned  more  about  religion  from  these  performances 
than  they  have  acquired,  no  doubt,  in  the  whole  of  their 
lives  before.  In  the  course  of  a  very  few  years  we  have 
seen — "  The  Wandering  Jew;  "  "  Belshazzar's  Feast;  " 
"  Nebuchadnezzar:  "  and  the  "  Massacre  of  the  Inno- 
cents; "  "  Joseph  and  his  Brethren;  "  "  The  Passage  of 
the  Red  Sea;  "  and  "  The  Deluge." 

The  great  Dumas,  like  Madame  Sand  before  men- 
tioned, has  brought  a  vast  quantity  of  religion  before  the 
foot-lights.  There  was  his  famous  tragedy  of  "  Calig- 
ula," which,  be  it  spoken  to  the  shame  of  the  Paris  critics, 
was  coldly  received ;  nay,  actually  hissed,  by  them.  And 
why?  Because,  says  Dumas,  it  contained  a  great  deal 
too  much  piety  for  the  rogues.  The  public,  he  says,  was 
much  more  religious,  and  understood  him  at  once. 

"  As  for  the  critics,"  says  he,  nobly,  "  let  those  who 
cried  out  against  the  immorality  of  Antony  and  Mar- 
guerite de  Bourgogne,  reproach  me  for  the  chastity  of 
Messalina."  (This  dear  creature  is  the  heroine  of  the 
play  of  "  Caligula.")  "  It  matters  little  to  me.  These 
people  have  but  seen  the  form  of  my  work:  they  have 
walked  round  the  tent,  but  have  not  seen  the  arch  which 
it  covered;  they  have  examined  the  vases  and  candles 
of  the  altar,  but  have  not  opened  the  tabernacle ! 


FRENCH   DRAMAS  371 

"  The  public  alone  has,  instinctively,  comprehended 
that  there  was,  beneath  this  outward  sign,  an  inward 
and  mysterious  grace :  it  followed  the  action  of  the  piece 
in  all  its  serpentine  windings ;  it  listened  for  four  hours, 
with  pious  attention  {avec  recueillement  et  religion), 
to  the  sound  of  this  rolling  river  of  thoughts,  which  may 
have  appeared  to  it  new  and  bold,  perhaps,  but  chaste 
and  grave ;  and  it  retired,  with  its  head  on  its  breast,  like 
a  man  who  had  just  perceived,  in  a  dream,  the  solution  of 
a  problem  which  he  has  long  and  vainly  sought  in  his 
waking  hours." 

You  see  that  not  only  Saint  Sand  is  an  apostle,  in  her 
way;  but  Saint  Dumas  is  another.  We  have  people 
in  England  who  write  for  bread,  like  Dumas  and  Sand, 
and  are  paid  so  much  for  their  line;  but  they  don't  set 
up  for  prophets.  Mrs.  Trollope  has  never  declared  that 
her  novels  are  inspired  by  heaven;  Mr.  Buckstone  has 
written  a  great  number  of  farces,  and  never  talked  about 
the  altar  and  the  tabernacle.  Even  Sir  Edward  Bulwer 
(who,  on  a  similar  occasion,  when  the  critics  found  fault 
with  a  play  of  his,  answered  them  by  a  pretty  decent  dec- 
laration of  his  own  merits,)  never  ventured  to  say  that 
he  had  received  a  divine  mission,  and  was  uttering  five- 
act  revelations. 

All  things  considered,  the  tragedy  of  "  Caligula  "  is 
a  decent  tragedy;  as  decent  as  the  decent  characters  of 
the  hero  and  heroine  can  allow  it  to  be ;  it  may  be  almost 
said,  provokingly  decent:  but  this,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, is  the  characteristic  of  the  modern  French  school 
(nay,  of  the  English  school  too)  ;  and  if  the  writer  take 
the  character  of  a  remarkable  scoundrel,  it  is  ten  to  one 
but  he  turns  out  an  amiable  fellow,  in  whom  we  have  all 
the  warmest  sympathy.    "  Caligula  "  is  killed  at  the  end 


372  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

of  the  performance;  Messalina  is  comparatively  well- 
behaved;  and  the  sacred  part  of  the  performance,  the 
tabernacle-characters  apart  from  the  mere  "  vase  "  and 
"  candlestick  "  personages,  may  be  said  to  be  depicted  in 
the  person  of  a  Christian  convert,  Stella,  who  has  had 
the  good  fortune  to  be  converted  by  no  less  a  person  than 
Mary  Magdalene,  when  she,  Stella,  was  staying  on  a  visit 
to  her  aunt,  near  Narbonne. 

Stella  {continuant^ Voila 

Que  je  vois  s'avancer,  sans  pilote  et  sans  rames, 

Une  barque  port  ant  deux  hommes  et  deux  femmes, 

Et,  spectacle  inoui'  qui  me  ravit  encor, 

Tous  quatre  avaient  au  front  une  aureole  d'or 

D'ou  partaient  des  rayons  de  si  vive  lumiere 

Que  je  fus  obligee  a  baisser  la  paupiere; 

Et,  lorsque  je  rouvris  les  yeux  avec  effroi, 

Les  voyageurs  divins  etaient  aupres  de  moi. 

Un  jour  de  chacun  d'eux  et  dans  toute  sa  gloire 

Je  te  raconterai  la  merveilleuse  histoire, 

Et  tu  I'adoreras,  j'espere;  en  ce  moment, 

Ma  mere,  il  te  suffit  de  savoir  seulement 

Que  tous  quatre  venaient  du  fond  de  la  Syrle: 

Un  edit  les  avait  bannis  de  leur  patrie, 

Et,  se  faisant  bourreaux,  des  hommes  irrites, 

Sans  avirons,  sans  eau,  sans  pain  et  garrottes, 

Sur  une  frele  barque  echouee  au  rivage, 

Les  avaient  a  la  mer  pousses  dans  un  orage. 

Mais  a  peine  I'esquif  eut-il  touche  les  flots 

Qu'au  cantique  chante  par  les  saints  matelots, 

L'ouragan  replia  ses  ailes  fremissantes. 

Que  la  mer  aplanit  ses  vagues  mugissantes, 

Et  qu'un  soleil  plus  pur,  reparalssant  aux  cieux, 

Enveloppa  I'esquif  d'un  cercle  radieux !  .  .  . 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  373 

Junta. — Mais  c'etait  un  prodige. 

Stella. —  Un  miracle,  ma  mere! 

Leurs  fers  tomberent  seuls,  I'eau  cessa  d'etre  amere, 
Et  deux  fois  chaquc  jour  le  bateau  fut  couvert 
D'une  manne  pareille  a  celle  du  desert : 
C'est  ainsi  que,  pousses  par  une  main  celeste, 
Je  les  vis  aborder. 

JuNiA. —  Oh!  dis  vitc  le  reste ! 

Stella. — A  I'aube,  trois  d'entre  eux  quitterent  la 
maison : 
Marthe  prit  le  chemin  qui  mene  a  Tarascon, 
Lazare  et  Maximin  celui  de  Massilie, 
Et  celle  qui  resta  ....  c'etait  la  plu^  jolie, 

(how  truly  French!) 
Nous  faisant  appeler  vers  le  milieu  du  jour, 
Demanda  si  les  monts  ou  les  bois  d'alentour 
Cachaient  quclque  retraite  inconnue  et  profonde, 

Qui  la  put  separer  a  tout  jamais  du  monde 

Aquila  se  souvint  qu'il  avait  penetre 
Dans  un  antre  sauvage  et  de  tous  ignore, 
Grotte  creusee  aux  flancs  de  ces  Alpes  sublimes, 
Ou  I'aigle  fait  son  aire  au-dessus  des  abimes. 
II  ofFrit  cet  asile,  et  des  le  lendemain 
Tous  deux,  pour  I'y  guidcr,  nous  etions  en  chemin. 
Le  soir  du  second  jour  nous  touchames  sa  base: 
La,  tombant  a  genoux  dans  une  sainte  extase, 
Elle  pria  long-temps,  puis  vers  I'antre  inconnu, 
Denouant  sa  chaussure,  elle  marcha  pied  nu. 
Nos  prieres,  nos  cris  resterent  sans  reponses: 
Au  milieu  des  cailloux,  des  epines,  des  ronces, 
Nous  la  vimes  monter,  un  baton  a  la  main, 
Et  ce  n'est  qu'arrivee  au  terme  du  chemin, 
Qu'enfin  elle  tomba  sans  force  et  sans  haleine  .... 

JuNiA.  —  Comment  la  nommait-on,  ma  fille? 

Stella. —  Madeleine. 


374  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Walking,  says  Stella,  by  the  sea-shore,  "A  bark  drew 
near,  that  had  nor  sail  nor  oar ;  two  women  and  two  men 
the  vessel  bore:  each  of  that  crew,  'twas  wondrous  to 
behold,  wore  round  his  head  a  ring  of  blazing  gold ;  from 
which  such  radiance  glittered  all  around,  that  I  was  fain 
to  look  towards  the  ground.  And  when  once  more  I  raised 
my  frightened  eyne,  before  me  stood  the  travellers  di- 
vine ;  their  rank,  the  glorious  lot  that  each  bef el,  at  better 
season,  mother,  will  I  tell.  Of  this  anon:  the  time  will 
come  when  thou  shalt  learn  to  worship  as  I  worship  now. 
Suffice  it,  that  from  Syria's  land  they  came;  an  edict 
from  their  country  banished  them.  Fierce,  angry  men 
had  seized  upon  the  four,  and  launched  them  in  that  ves- 
sel from  the  shore.  They  launched  these  victims  on  the 
waters  rude ;  nor  rudder  gave  to  steer,  nor  bread  for  food. 
As  the  doomed  vessel  cleaves  the  stormy  main,  that  pious 
crew  uplifts  a  sacred  strain;  the  angry  waves  are  silent 
as  it  sings;  the  storm,  awe-stricken,  folds  its  quivering 
wings.  A  purer  sun  appears  the  heavens  to  light,  and 
wraps  the  little  bark  in  radiance  bright. 

"  JuNiA.  —  Sure,  'twas  a  prodigy. 

"  Stella. — A  miracle.  Spontaneous  from  their  hands 
the  fetters  fell.  The  salt  sea- wave  grew  fresh ;  and,  twice 
a  day,  manna  (like  that  which  on  the  desert  lay)  covered 
the  bark,  and  fed  them  on  their  way.  Thus,  hither  led, 
at  heaven's  divine  behest,  I  saw  them  land — 

"  JuNiA. — My  daughter,  tell  the  rest. 

"  Stella. — Three  of  the  four,  our  mansion  left  at 
dawn.  One,  Martha,  took  the  road  to  Tarascon ;  Lazarus 
and  Maximin  to  Massily;  but  one  remained  (the  fairest 
of  the  three) ,  who  asked  us,  if,  i'  the  woods  or  moun- 
tains near,  there  chanced  to  be  some  cavern  lone  and 
drear;  where  she  might  hide,  for  ever,  from  all  men.    It 


FRENCH   DRAMAS  375 

chanced,  my  cousin  knew  of  such  a  den ;  deep  hidden  in 
a  mountain's  hoary  breast,  on  which  the  eagle  builds 
his  airy  nest.  And  thither  offered  he  the  saint  to  guide. 
Next  day  upon  the  journey  forth  we  hied;  and  came,  at 
the  second  eve,  with  weary  pace,  unto  the  lonely  moun- 
tain's rugged  base.  Here  the  worn  traveller,  falling  on 
her  knee,  did  pray  awhile  in  sacred  ecstasy;  and,  draw- 
ing off  her  sandals  from  her  feet,  marched,  naked, 
towards  that  desolate  retreat.  No  answer  made  she  to 
our  cries  or  groans;  but  walking  midst  the  prickles  and 
rude  stones,  a  staff  in  hand,  we  saw  her  upwards  toil; 
nor  ever  did  she  pause,  nor  rest  the  while,  save  at  the 
entry  of  that  savage  den.  Here,  powerless  and  panting, 
fell  she  then. 

"  JuNiA. — What  was  her  name,  my  daughter? 

"  Stella.  Magdalen." 

Here  the  translator  must  pause — having  no  inclina- 
tion to  enter  "the  tabernacle,"  in  company  with  such 
a  spotless  high-priest  as  Monsieur  Dumas. 

Something  "  tabernacular  "  may  be  found  in  Dumas's 
famous  piece  of  "  Don  Juan  de  Marana."  The  poet 
has  laid  the  scene  of  his  play  in  a  vast  number  of  places : 
in  heaven  (where  we  have  the  Virgin  INIary,  and  little 
angels,  in  blue,  swinging  censers  before  her!)  —on  earth, 
under  the  earth,  and  in  a  place  still  lower,  but  not  men- 
tionable  to  ears  polite;  and  the  plot,  as  it  appears  from 
a  dialogue  between  a  good  and  a  bad  angel,  with  which 
the  play  commences,  turns  upon  a  contest  between  these 
two  worthies  for  the  possession  of  the  soul  of  a  member 
of  the  family  of  Marana. 

"  Don  Juan  de  INIarana  "  not  only  resembles  his  name- 
sake, celebrated  by  Mozart  and  INIoliere,  in  his  peculiar 


376  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

successes  among  the  ladies,  but  possesses  further  quali- 
ties which  render  his  character  eminently  fitting  for 
stage  representation:  he  unites  the  virtues  of  Lovelace 
and  Lacenaire;  he  blasphemes  upon  all  occasions;  he 
murders,  at  the  slightest  provocation,  and  without  the 
most  trifling  remorse ;  he  overcomes  ladies  of  rigid  virtue, 
ladies  of  easy  virtue,  and  ladies  of  no  virtue  at  all;  and 
the  poet,  inspired  by  the  contemplation  of  such  a  char- 
acter, has  depicted  his  hero's  adventures  and  conversation 
with  wonderful  feeling  and  truth. 

The  first  act  of  the  play  contains  a  half-dozen  of  mur- 
ders and  intrigues;  which  would  have  sufficed  humbler 
genius  than  M.  Dumas 's,  for  the  completion  of,  at  least, 
half-a-dozen  tragedies.  In  the  second  act  our  hero  flogs 
his  elder  brother,  and  runs  away  with  his  sister-in-law ;  in 
the  third,  he  fights  a  duel  with  a  rival,  and  kills  him: 
whereupon  the  mistress  of  his  victim  takes  poison,  and 
dies,  in  great  agonies,  on  the  stage.  In  the  fourth 
act,  Don  Juan,  having  entered  a  church  for  the  pur- 
j)ose  of  carrying  off  a  nun,  with  whom  he  is  in  love,  is 
seized  by  the  statue  of  one  of  the  ladies  whom  he  has 
previously  victimized,  and  made  to  behold  the  ghosts 
of  all  those  unfortunate  persons  whose  deaths  he  has 
caused. 

This  is  a  most  edifying  spectacle.  The  ghosts  rise 
solemnly,  each  in  a  white  sheet,  preceded  by  a  wax- 
candle;  and,  having  declared  their  names  and  qualities, 
call,  in  chorus,  for  vengeance  upon  Don  Juan,  as  thus : — 

Don  Sandoval  loquitur. 

"  I  am  Don  Sandoval  d'Ojedo.  I  played  against  Don 
Juan  my  fortune,  the  tomb  of  my  fathers,  and  the  heart 


FRENCH   DRAIMAS 


377 


of  my  mistress;— I  lost  all:  I  played  against  him  my 
life,  and  I  lost  it.  Vengeance  against  the  murderer! 
vengeance!  "—  {The  candle  goes  out.) 

The  candle  goes  out,  and  an  angel  descends — a  flam- 
ing sword  in  his  hand — and  asks:  "  Is  there  no  voice  in 
favour  of  Don  Juan?"  when  lo!  Don  Juan's  father 
(like  one  of  those  ingenious  toys  called  "  Jack-in-the- 
box,")  jumps  up  from  his  coffin,  and  demands  grace  for 
his  son. 

When  INIartha  the  nun  returns,  having  prepared  all 
things  for  her  elopement,  she  finds  Don  Juan  fainting 
upon  the  ground.  — "  I  am  no  longer  your  husband," 
says  he,  upon  coming  to  himself;  "  I  am  no  longer  Don 
Juan ;  I  am  Brother  Juan  the  Trappist.  Sister  jNIartha, 
recollect  that  you  must  die!  " 

This  was  a  most  cruel  blow  upon  Sister  Martha,  who  is 
no  less  a  person  than  an  angel, 
an  angel  in  disguise— the  good 
spirit  of  the  house  of  JNIarana, 
who  has  gone  to  the  length  of 
losing  her  wings  and  forfeiting 
her  place  in  heaven,  in  order  to 
keep  company  with  Don  Juan 
on  earth,  and,  if  possible,  to 
convert  him.  Already,  in  her 
angelic  character,  she  had  ex- 
horted him  to  repentance,  but  in 
vain ;  for,  while  she  stood  at  one 
elbow,  pouring  not  merely 
hints,  but  long  sermons,  into 
his  ear,  at  the  other  elbow  stood  a  bad  spirit,  grinning  and 
sneering  at  all  her  pious  counsels,  and  obtaining  by  far 
the  greater  share  of  the  Don's  attention. 


378  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  utter  contempt  with  which 
Don  Juan  treats  her, — in  spite  of  his  dissolute  courses, 
which  must  shock  her  virtue, — and  his  impohte  neglect, 
which  must  wound  her  vanity,  the  poor  creature  (who, 
from  having  been  accustomed  to  better  company,  might 
have  been  presumed  to  have  had  better  taste),  the  un- 
fortunate angel  feels  a  certain  inclination  for  the  Don, 
and  actually  flies  up  to  heaven  to  ask  permission  to  re- 
main with  him  on  earth. 

And  when  the  curtain  draws  up,  to  the  sound  of  harps, 
and  discovers  white-robed  angels  walking  in  the  clouds, 
we  find  the  angel  of  Marana  upon  her  knees,  uttering  the 
following  address: — 

Le  Bon  Ange 

Vierge,  a  qui  le  calice  a  la  liqueur  amere 

Fut  si  souvent  offert, 
Mere,  que  I'on  nomma  la  douloureuse  mere, 

Tant  vous  avez  soufFert ! 

Vous,  dont  les  yeux  divins  sur  la  terre  des  hommes 

Ont  verse  plus  de  pleurs 
Que  vos  pieds  n'ont  depuis,  dans  le  ciel  ou  nous  sommes, 

Fait  eclore  de  fleurs. 

Vase  d'election,  etoile  matinale, 

Miroir  de  purete, 
Vous  qui  priez  pour  nous,  d'une  voix  virginale, 

La  supreme  bonte; 

A  mon  tour,  aujourd'hui,  bienheureuse  Marie, 

Je  tombe  a  vos  genoux ; 
Daignez  done  m'ecouter,  car  c'est  vous  que  je  prie, 

Vous  qui  priez  pour  nous. 


FRENCH   DRAMAS  379 

Which  may  be  thus  interpreted:— 

O  Virgin  blest !  by  whom  the  bitter  draught 

So  often  has  been  quaffed, 
That,  for  thy  sorrow,  thou  art  named  by  us 

The  Mother  Dolorous ! 

Thou,  from  whose  eyes  have  fallen  more  tears  of  woe. 

Upon  the  earth  below, 
Than  'neath  thy  footsteps,  in  this  heaven  of  ours, 

Have  risen  flowers ! 

O  beaming  morning  star !     O  chosen  vase ! 

O  mirror  of  all  grace ! 
Who,  with  thy  virgin  voice,  dost  ever  pray 

Man's  sins  away; 

Bend  down  thine  ear,  and  list,  O  blessed  saint ! 

Unto  my  sad  complaint ; 
Mother !  to  thee  I  kneel,  on  thee  I  call, 

Who  hearest  all. 

She  proceeds  to  request  that  she  may  be  allowed  to  return 
to  earth,  and  follow  the  fortunes  of  Don  Juan;  and,  as 
there  is  one  difficulty,  or,  to  use  her  own  words,— 

Mais,  comme  vous  savez  qu'aux  voutes  eternelles, 

Malgre  moi,  tend  mon  vol, 
Soufflez  sur  mon  etoile  et  detachez  mes  alles. 

Four  m^encJiainer  au  sol; 

her  request  is  granted,  her  star  is  blown  out  (O  poetic 
allusion!)  and  she  descends  to  earth  to  love,  and  to  go 
mad,  and  to  die  for  Don  Juan ! 

The  reader  will  require  no  further  explanation,  in  or- 


S80  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

der  to  be  satisfied  as  to  the  moral  of  this  play:  but  is  it 
not  a  very  bitter  satire  upon  the  country,  which  calls  itself 
the  politest  nation  in  the  world,  that  the  incidents,  the 
indecency,  the  coarse  blasphemy,  and  the  vulgar  wit  of 
this  piece,  should  find  admirers  among  the  public,  and 
procure  reputation  for  the  author?  Could  not  the  Gov- 
ernment, which  has  re-established,  in  a  manner,  the  theat- 
rical censorship,  and  forbids  or  alters  plays  which  touch 
on  politics,  exert  the  same  guardianship  over  public 
morals?  The  honest  English  reader,  who  has  a  faith 
in  his  clergyman,  and  is  a  regular  attendant  at  Sunday 
worship,  will  not  be  a  little  surprised  at  the  march  of 
intellect  among  our  neighbours  across  the  Channel,  and 
at  the  kind  of  consideration  in  which  they  hold  their  re- 
ligion. Here  is  a  man  who  seizes  upon  saints  and  angels, 
merely  to  put  sentiments  in  their  mouths  which  might 
suit  a  nymph  of  Drury  Lane.  He  shows  heaven,  in 
order  that  he  may  carry  debauch  into  it ;  and  avails  him- 
self of  the  most  sacred  and  sublime  parts  of  our  creed 
as  a  vehicle  for  a  scene-painter's  skill,  or  an  occasion  for 
a  handsome  actress  to  wear  a  new  dress. 

M.  Dumas's  piece  of  "  Kean  "  is  not  quite  so  sublime; 
it  was  brought  out  by  the  author  as  a  satire  upon  the 
French  critics,  who,  to  their  credit  be  it  spoken,  had 
generally  attacked  him,  and  was  intended  by  him,  and 
received  by  the  public,  as  a  faithful  portraiture  of  Eng- 
lish manners.  As  such,  it  merits  special  observation  and 
praise.  In  the  first  act  you  find  a  Countess  and  an  Am- 
bassadress, whose  conversation  relates  purely  to  the  great 
actor.  All  the  ladies  in  London  are  in  love  with  him, 
especially  the  two  present.  As  for  the  Ambassadress, 
she  prefers  him  to  her  husband  ( a  matter  of  course  in  all 
French  plays) ,  and  to  a  more  seducing  person  still — no 


FRENCH   DRAMAS  381 

less  a  person  than  the  Prince  of  Wales!  who  presently 
waits  on  the  ladies,  and  joins  in  their  conversation  con- 
cerning Kean.  "  This  man,"  says  his  Royal  Highness, 
"  is  the  very  pink  of  fashion.  Brumniell  is  nobody  when 
compared  to  him;  and  I  myself  only  an  insignificant 
private  gentleman.  He  has  a  reputation  among  ladies, 
for  which  I  sigh  in  vain;  and  spends  an  income  twice 
as  great  as  mine."  This  admirable  historic  touch  at  once 
paints  the  actor  and  the  Prince;  the  estimation  in  which 
the  one  was  held,  and  the  modest  economy  for  which  the 
other  was  so  notorious. 

Then  we  have  Kean,  at  a  place  called  the  Trou  de 
Charhon,  the  "  Coal  Hole,"  where,  to  the  edification  of 
the  public,  he  engages  in  a  fisty  combat  with  a  notorious 
boxer.  This  scene  was  received  by  the  audience  with 
loud  exclamations  of  delight,  and  commented  on,  by  the 
journals,  as  a  faultless  picture  of  English  manners. 
"  The  Coal  Hole  "  being  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames, 
a  nobleman — Lord  Melbournl— has  chosen  the  tavern  as 
a  rendezvous  for  a  gang  of  pirates,  who  are  to  have 
their  ship  in  waiting,  in  order  to  carry  off  a  young  lady 
with  whom  his  lordship  is  enamoured.  It  need  not  be 
said  that  Kean  arrives  at  the  nick  of  time,  saves  the 
innocent  Me  ess  Anna,  and  exposes  the  infamy  of  the 
Peer.  A  violent  tirade  against  noblemen  ensues,  and 
Lord  Melbourn  slinks  away,  disappointed,  to  meditate 
revenge.  Kean's  triumphs  continue  through  all  the  acts : 
the  Ambassadress  falls  madly  in  love  with  him;  the 
Prince  becomes  furious  at  his  ill  success,  and  the  Am- 
bassador dreadfully  jealous.  They  pursue  Kean  to  his 
dressing-room  at  the  theatre ;  where,  unluckily,  the  Am- 
bassadress herself  has  taken  refuge.  Dreadful  quarrels 
ensue;   the  tragedian   grows  suddenly  mad  upon  the 


382  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

stage,  and  so  cruelly  insults  the  Prince  of  Wales  that  his 
Royal  Highness  determines  to  send  him  to  Botany  Bay. 
His  sentence,  however,  is  commuted  to  banishment  to 
New  York;  whither,  of  course,  Miss  Anna  accompanies 
him;  rewarding  him,  previously,  with  her  hand  and 
twenty  thousand  a  year ! 

This  wonderful  performance  was  gravely  received  and 
admired  by  the  people  of  Paris :  the  piece  was  considered 
to  be  decidedly  moral,  because  the  popular  candidate  was 
made  to  triumph  throughout,  and  to  triumph  in  the  most 
virtuous  manner;  for,  according  to  the  French  code  of 
morals,  success  among  women  is,  at  once,  the  proof  and 
the  reward  of  virtue. 

The  sacred  personage  introduced  in  Dumas'  play  be- 
hind a  cloud,  figures  bodily  in  the  piece  of  the  Massacre 
of  the  l7inocents,  represented  at  Paris  last  year.  She 
appears  under  a  different  name,  but  the  costume  is  ex- 
actly that  of  Carlo  Dolce's  Madonna ;  and  an  ingenious 
fable  is  arranged,  the  interest  of  which  hangs  upon  the 
grand  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  perpetrated  in  the  fifth 
act.  One  of  the  chief  characters  is  Jean  le  Precurseur, 
who  threatens  woe  to  Herod  and  his  race,  and  is  beheaded 
by  the  orders  of  that  sovereign. 

In  the  Festin  de  Balthazar ^  we  are  similarly  intro- 
duced to  Daniel,  and  the  first  scene  is  laid  by  the  waters 
of  Babylon,  where  a  certain  number  of  captive  Jews  are 
seated  in  melancholy  postures;  a  Babylonian  officer  en- 
ters, exclaiming,  "  Chantez  nous  quelques  chansons  de 
Jerusalem,"  and  the  request  is  refused  in  the  language 
of  the  Psalm.  Belshazzar's  Feast  is  given  in  a  grand 
tableau,  after  Martin's  picture.  That  painter,  in  like 
manner,  furnished  scenes  for  the  Deluge.  Vast  numbers 
of  schoolboys  and  children  are  brought  to  see  these 


FRENCH   DRAMAS  383 

pieces;  the  lower  classes  delight  in  them.  The  famous 
Jiiif  Errant,  at  the  theatre  of  the  Porte  St.  INIartin,  was 
the  first  of  the  kind,  and  its  prodigious  success,  no  doubt, 
occasioned  the  number  of  imitations  which  the  other  thea- 
tres have  produced. 

The  taste  of  such  exhibitions,  of  course,  every  Eng- 
lish person  will  question;  but  we  must  remember  the 
manners  of  the  people  among  whom  they  are  popular; 
and,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  hazard  such  an  opinion,  there 
is,  in  every  one  of  these  Boulevard  mysteries,  a  kind  of 
rude  moral.  The  Boulevard  writers  don't  pretend  to 
**  tabernacles  "  and  divine  gifts,  like  Madame  Sand  and 
Dumas  before  mentioned.  If  they  take  a  story  from 
the  sacred  books,  they  garble  it  without  mercy,  and  take 
sad  liberties  with  the  text;  but  they  do  not  deal  in 
descriptions  of  the  agreeably  wicked,  or  ask  pity  and 
admiration  for  tender-hearted  criminals  and  philan- 
thropic murderers,  as  their  betters  do.  Vice  is  vice  on  the 
Boulevard ;  and  it  is  fine  to  hear  the  audience,  as  a  tyrant 
king  roars  out  cruel  sentences  of  death,  or  a  bereaved 
mother  pleads  for  the  life  of  her  child,  making  their 
remarks  on  the  circumstances  of  the  scene.  "All,  le 
gredin!  "  growls  an  indignant  countryman.  "  Quel  mon- 
stre!"  says  a  grisette,  in  a  fury.  You  see  very  fat 
old  men  crying  like  babies;  and,  like  babies,  sucking 
enormous  sticks  of  barley-sugar.  Actors  and  audience 
enter  warmly  into  the  illusion  of  the  piece;  and  so  es- 
pecially are  the  former  affected,  that  at  Franconi's, 
where  the  battles  of  the  Empire  are  represented,  there 
is  as  regular  gradation  in  the  ranks  of  the  mimic  army 
as  in  the  real  imperial  legions.  After  a  man  has  served, 
with  credit,  for  a  certain  number  of  years  in  the  line, 
he  is  promoted  to  be  an  officer— an  acting  officer.    If  he 


384  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

conducts  himself  well,  he  may  rise  to  be  a  Colonel,  or  a 
General  of  Division;  if  ill,  he  is  degraded  to  the  ranks 
again;  or,  worse  degradation  of  all,  drafted  into  a  regi- 
ment of  Cossacks  or  Austrians.  Cossacks  is  the  lowest 
depth,  however ;  nay,  it  is  said  that  the  men  who  perform 
these  Cossack  parts  receive  higher  wages  than  the  mimic 
grenadiers  and  old  guard.  They  will  not  consent  to  be 
beaten  every  night,  even  in  play;  to  be  pm'sued  in  hun- 
dreds, by  a  handful  of  French ;  to  fight  against  their  be- 
loved Emperor.  Surely  there  is  fine  hearty  virtue  in 
this,  and  pleasant  child-like  simplicity. 

So  that  while  the  drama  of  Victor  Hugo,  Dumas,  and 
the  enlightened  classes,  is  profoundly  immoral  and  ab- 
surd, the  drama  of  the  common  people  is  absurd,  if  you 
will,  but  good  and  right-hearted.  I  have  made  notes  pf 
one  or  two  of  these  pieces,  which  all  have  good  feeling 
and  kindness  in  them,  and  which  turn,  as  the  reader  will 
see,  upon  one  or  two  favourite  points  of  popular  moral- 
ity. A  drama  that  obtained  a  vast  success  at  the  Porte 
Saint  Martin,  was  "  La  Duchesse  de  la  Vauballiere." 
The  Duchess  is  the  daughter  of  a  poor  farmer,  who  was 
carried  oiF  in  the  first  place,  and  then  married  by  M.  le 
Due  de  la  Vauballiere,  a  terrible  roue,  the  farmer's  land- 
lord, and  the  intimate  friend  of  Philippe  d'Orleans,  the 
Regent  of  France. 

Now  the  Duke,  in  running  away  with  the  lady,  in- 
tended to  dispense  altogether  with  ceremony,  and  make 
of  Julie  anything  but  his  wife ;  but  Georges,  her  father, 
and  one  Morisseau,  a  notary,  discovered  him  in  his 
dastardly  act,  and  pursued  him  to  the  very  feet  of  the 
Regent,  who  compelled  the  pair  to  marry  and  make  it  up. 

Julie  complies;  but  though  she  becomes  a  Duchess, 
her  heart  remains  faithful  to  her  old  flame,  Adrian, 


FREXCH   DRAMAS  385 

the  doctor;  and  she  declares  that,  beyond  the  ceremony, 
no  sort  of  intimacy  shall  take  place  between  her  husband 
and  herself. 

Then  the  Duke  begins  to  treat  her  in  the  most  un- 
gentlemanlike  manner:  he  abuses  her  in  every  possible 
way;  he  introduces  improper  characters  into  her  house; 
and,  finally,  becomes  so  disgusted  with  her,  that  he  de- 
termines to  make  away  with  her  altogether. 

For  this  purpose,  he  sends  forth  into  the  highways 
and  seizes  a  doctor,  bidding  him,  on  pain  of  death,  to 
write  a  poisonous  prescription  for  ]Madame  la  Duchesse. 
She  swallows  the  potion ;  and  O  horror !  the  doctor  turns 
out  to  be  Dr.  Adrian;  whose  woe  may  be  imagined, 
upon  finding  that  he  has  been  thus  committing  murder 
on  his  true  love! 

Let  not  the  reader,  however,  be  alarmed  as  to  the  fate 
of  the  heroine;  no  heroine  of  a  tragedy  ever  yet  died  in 
the  third  act;  and,  accordingly,  the  Duchess  gets  up 
perfectly  well  again  in  the  fourth,  through  the  instru- 
mentality of  Morisseau,  the  good  lawyer. 

And  now  it  is  that  vice  begins  to  be  really  punished. 
The  Duke,  who,  after  killing  his  wife,  thinks  it  necessary 
to  retreat,  and  take  refuge  in  Spain,  is  tracked  to  the 
borders  of  that  country  by  the  virtuous  notary,  and  there 
receives  such  a  lesson  as  he  will  never  forget  to  his  dying 
day. 

Morisseau,  in  the  first  instance,  produces  a  deed 
(signed  by  his  Holiness  the  Pope),  which  annuls  the 
marriage  of  the  Duke  de  la  Vauballiere;  then  another 
deed,  by  which  it  is  proved  that  he  was  not  the  eldest  son 
of  old  La  Vauballiere,  the  former  Duke;  then  another 
deed,  by  which  he  shows  that  old  La  Vauballiere  (who 
seems  to  have  been  a  disreputable  old  fellow)  was  a  biga- 


386  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

mist,  and  that,  in  consequence,  the  present  man,  styling 
himself  Duke,  is  illegitimate;  and,  finally,  JNIorisseau 
brings  forward  another  document,  which  proves  that  the 
regular  Duke  is  no  other  than  Adrian,  the  doctor ! 

Thus  it  is  that  love,  law,  and  physic  combined,  triumph 
over  the  horrid  machinations  of  this  star-and-gartered 
libertine. 

"  Hermann  I'lvrogne  "  is  another  piece  of  the  same 
order ;  and  though  not  very  refined,  yet  possesses  consid- 
erable merit.  As  in  the  case  of  the  celebrated  Captain 
Smith  of  Halifax,  who  "  took  to  drinking  ratafia,  and 
thought  of  poor  Miss  Bailey," — a  woman  and  the  bottle 
have  been  the  cause  of  Hermann's  ruin.  Deserted  by 
his  mistress,  who  has  been  seduced  from  him  by  a  base 
Italian  count,  Hermann,  a  German  artist,  gives  himself 
entirely  up  to  liquor  and  revenge :  but  when  he  finds  that 
force,  and  not  infidelity,  has  been  the  cause  of  his  mis- 
tress's ruin,  the  reader  can  fancy  the  indignant  ferocity 
with  which  he  pursues  the  infdine  ravisseur.  A  scene, 
which  is  really  full  of  spirit,  and  excellently  well  acted, 
here  ensues!  Hermann  proposes  to  the  Count,  on  the 
eve  of  their  duel,  that  the  survivor  should  bird  himself  to 
espouse  the  unhappj^  JNIarie ;  but  the  Count  declares  him- 
self to  be  already  married,  and  the  student,  finding  a 
duel  impossible  (for  his  object  was  to  restore,  at  all 
events,  the  honour  of  Marie) ,  now  only  thinks  of  his  re- 
venge, and  murders  the  Count.  Presently,  two  parties 
of  men  enter  Hermann's  apartment:  one  is  a  company 
of  students  who  bring  him  the  news  that  he  has  obtained 
the  prize  of  painting ;  the  other  the  policemen,  who  carry 
him  to  prison,  to  suffer  the  penalty  of  murder. 

I  could  mention  many  more  plays  in  which  the  popular 
morality  is  similarly  expressed.    The  seducer,  or  rascal 


FREXCH  DRAMAS  387 

of  the  piece,  is  always  an  aristocrat,— a  wicked  count,  or 
licentious  marquis,  who  is  brought  to  condign  punish- 
ment just  before  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  And  too  good 
reason  have  the  French  people  had  to  lay  such,  crimes  to 
the  charge  of  the  aristocracy,  who  are  expiating  now,  on 
the  stage,  the  wrongs  which  they  did  a  hundred  years 
since.  The  aristocracy  is  dead  now ;  but  the  theatre  lives 
upon  traditions :  and  don't  let  us  be  too  scornful  at  such 
simple  legends  as  are  handed  down  by  the  people  from 
race  to  race.  Vulgar  prejudice  against  the  great  it  may 
be;  but  prejudice  against  the  great  is  only  a  rude  expres- 
sion of  sympathy  with  the  poor;  long,  therefore,  may 
fat  epiciers  blubber  over  mimic  M'oes,  and  honest  proU- 
taires  shake  their  fists,  shouting — "  Gredin,  scelerat, 
monstre  de  marquis!  "  and  such  republican  cries. 

Remark,  too,  another  development  of  this  same  pop- 
ular feeling  of  dislike  against  men  in  power.  What  a 
number  of  plays  and  legends  have  we  (the  writer  has 
submitted  to  the  public,  in  the  preceding  pages,  a  couple 
of  specimens;  one  of  French,  and  the  other  of  Polish 
origin,)  in  which  that  great  and  powerful  aristocrat,  the 
Devil,  is  made  to  be  miserably  tricked,  humiliated,  and 
disappointed!  A  play  of  this  class,  which,  in  the  midst 
of  all  its  absurdities  and  claptraps,  had  much  of  good  in 
it,  was  called  "  Le  INIaudit  des  Mers."  Le  ]\Iaudit  is  a 
Dutch  captain,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  storm,  while  his 
crew  were  on  their  knees  at  prayers,  blasphemed  and 
drank  punch;  but  what  was  his  astonishment  at  behold- 
ing an  archangel  with  a  sword  all  covered  with  flaming 
resin,  who  told  him  that  as  he,  in  this  hour  of  danger,  was 
too  daring,  or  too  wicked,  to  utter  a  prayer,  he  never 
should  cease  roaming  the  seas  until  he  could  find  some 
being  who  would  pray  to  heaven  for  him ! 


388  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Once  only,  in  a  hundred  years,  was  the  skipper  allowed 
to  land  for  this  purpose;  and  this  piece  runs  through 
four  centuries,  in  as  many  acts,  describing  the  agonies 
and  unavailing  attempts  of  the  miserable  Dutchman. 
Willing  to  go  any  lengths  in  order  to  obtain  his  prayer, 
he,  in  the  second  act,  betrays  a  Virgin  of  the  Sun  to  a 
follower  of  Pizarro:  and,  in  the  third,  assassinates  the 
heroic  William  of  Nassau ;  but  ever  before  the  dropping 
of  the  curtain,  the  angel  and  sword  make  their  appear- 
ance:—" Treachery,"  says  the  spirit,  "cannot  lessen  thy 
punishment; — crime  will  not  obtain  thy  release! — A  la 
mer!  a  la  mer! "  and  the  poor  devil  returns  to  the  ocean, 
to  be  lonely,  and  tempest-tossed,  and  sea-sick  for  a  hun- 
dred years  more. 

But  his  woes  are  destined  to  end  with  the  fourth  act. 
Having  landed  in  America,  where  the  peasants  on  the 
sea-shore,  all  dressed  in  Italian  costumes,  are  celebrating, 
in  a  quadrille,  the  victories  of  Washington,  he  is  there 
lucky  enough  to  find  a  young  girl  to  pray  for  him.  Then 
the  curse  is  removed,  the  punishment  is  over,  and  a  celes- 
tial vessel,  with  angels  on  the  decks  and  "  sweet  little 
cherubs  "  fluttering  about  the  shrouds  and  the  poop,  ap- 
pears to  receive  him. 

This  piece  was  acted  at  Franconi's,  where,  for  once, 
an  angel-ship  was  introduced  in  place  of  the  usual  horse- 
manship. 

One  must  not  forget  to  mention  here,  how  the  English 
nation  is  satirized  by  our  neighbours;  who  have  some 
droll  traditions  regarding  us.  In  one  of  the  little  Christ- 
mas pieces  produced  at  the  Palais  Royal  (satires  upon 
the  follies  of  the  past  twelve  months,  on  which  all  the 
small  theatres  exhaust  their  wit) ,  the  celebrated  flight  of 
Messrs.  Green  and  Monck  Mason  was  parodied,  and 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  389 

created  a  good  deal  of  laughter  at  the  expense  of  John 
Bull.  Two  English  noblemen,  Milor  Cricri  and  Milor 
Hanneton,  appear  as  descending  from  a  balloon,  and  one 
of  them  communicates  to  the  public  the  philosophic  ob- 
servations which  were  made  in  the  course  of  his  aerial 
tour. 

"  On  leaving  Vauxhall,"  says  his  lordship,  "  we  drank 
a  bottle  of  Madeira,  as  a  health  to  the  friends  from  whom 
we  parted,  and  crunched  a  few  biscuits  to  support  nature 
during  the  hours  before  lunch.  In  two  hours  we  arrived 
at  Canterbury,  enveloped  in  clouds:  lunch,  bottled  por- 
ter: at  Dover,  carried  several  miles  in  a  tide  of  air,  bit- 
ter cold,  cherry -brandy ;  crossed  over  the  Channel  safely, 
and  thought  wdth  pity  of  the  poor  people  who  were  sick- 
ening in  the  steamboats  below:  more  bottled  porter:  over 
Calais,  dinner,  roast-beef  of  Old  England ;  near  Dunkirk, 
— night  falling,  lunar  rainbow,  brandy-and-water ;  night 
confoundedly  thick ;  supper,  nightcap  of  rum-punch,  and 
so  to  bed.  The  sun  broke  beautifully  through  the  morn- 
ing mist,  as  we  boiled  the  kettle  and  took  our  breakfast 
over  Cologne.  In  a  few  more  hours  we  concluded  this 
memorable  voyage,  and  landed  safely  at  Weilburg,  in 
good  time  for  dinner." 

The  joke  here  is  smart  enough;  but  our  honest  neigh- 
bours make  many  better,  when  they  are  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  fun.  Let  us  leave  plays,  for  a  moment,  for 
poetry,  and  take  an  instance  of  French  criticism,  con- 
cerning England,  from  the  works  of  a  famous  French 
exquisite  and  man  of  letters.  The  hero  of  the  poem  ad- 
dresses his  mistress — 

Londres,  tu  le  sals  trop,  en  fait  de  capitale, 
Est-ce  que  fit  le  ciel  de  plus  f  roid  et  plus  pale, 


390  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

C'est  la  ville  du  gaz,  des  marins,  du  brouillard ; 
On  s'y  couche  a  minuit,  et  I'on  s'y  leve  tard ; 
Ses  raouts  tant  vantes  ne  sont  qu'une  boxade, 
Sur  ses  grands  quais  jamais  echelle  ou  serenade, 
Mais  de  volumineux  bourgeois  pris  de  porter 
Qui  passent  sans  lever  le  front  a  Westminster ; 
Et  n'etait  sa  foret  de  mats  percant  la  brume, 
Sa  tour  dont  a  minuit  le  vieil  ceil  s'allume, 
Et  tes  deux  jeux,  Zerline,  illumines  bien  plus, 
Je  dirais  que,  ma  foi,  des  romans  que  j'ai  lus, 
II  n'en  est  pas  un  seul,  plus  lourd,  plus  lethargique 
Que  cette  nation  qu'on  nomme  Britannique! 

The  writer  of  the  above  lines  (which  let  any  man  who 
can  translate)  is  Monsieur  Roger  de  Beauvoir,  a  gentle- 
man who  actually  lived  many  months  in  England,  as  an 
attache  to  the  embassy  of  M.  de  Polignac.  He  places 
the  heroine  of  his  tale  in  a  petit  reduit  jires  le  Strand, 
"  with  a  green  and  fresh  jalousie,  and  a  large  blind, 
let  down  all  day;  you  fancied  you  were  entering  a 
bath  of  Asia,  as  soon  as  you  had  passed  the  perfumed 
threshold  of  this  charming  retreat!"  He  next  places 
her— 

Dans  un  square  ecarte,  morne  et  couverte  de  givre, 
Ou  se  cache  un  hotel,  aux  vieux  lions  de  cuivre ; 

and  the  hero  of  the  tale,  a  young  French  poet,  who  is 
in  London,  is  truly  unhappy  in  that  village. 

Arthur  desseche  et  meurt.    Dans  la  ville  de  Sterne, 
Rien  qu'en  voyant  le  peuple  il  a  le  mal  de  mer ; 


FRENCH  DRAMAS  391 

II  n'aline  nl  le  Pare,  gai  comme  une  citerne, 
Ni  le  tir  au  pigeon,  ni  le  soda-water} 

Liston  ne  le  fait  plus  sourciller !    II  rumine 
Sur  les  trottoirs  du  Strand,  droit  comme  un  echiquier, 
Contre  le  peuple  anglais,  les  negres,  la  vermine, 
Et  les  mille  cokneys  du  peuple  boutiquier, 

Contre  tous  les  bas-bleus,  contre  les  patissieres, 
Les  parieurs  d'Epsom,  le  gin,  le  parlement. 
La  qiuiterly,  le  roi,  la  pluie  et  les  libraires, 
Dont  il  ne  touclie  plus,  helas !  un  sou  d'argent ! 

Et  chaque  gentleman  lui  dit:  L'heureux  poete! 

"  L'heureux  poete  "  indeed!  I  question  if  a  poet  in 
this  wide  world  is  so  happy  as  M.  de  Beauvoir,  or  has 
made  such  wonderful  discoveries.  "  The  bath  of  Asia, 
with  green  jalousies,"  in  which  the  lady  dwells;  "the 
old  hotel,  with  copper  lions,  in  a  lonely  square;  "—were 
ever  such  things  heard  of,  or  imagined,  but  by  a  French- 
man? The  sailors,  the  negroes,  the  vermin,  whom  he 
meets  in  the  street, — how  great  and  happy  are  all  these 
discoveries!  Liston  no  longer  makes  the  happy  poet 
frown;  and  "  gin,"  "  cokneys,"  and  the  "  quaterly  "  have 
not  the  least  effect  upon  him!  And  this  gentleman  has 
lived  many  months  amongst  us;  admires  Williams  Shak- 
spear,  the  "  grave  et  vieux  prophete,"  as  he  calls  him, 
and  never,  for  an  instant,  doubts  that  his  description  con- 
tains anything  absurd! 

I  don't  know  whether  the  great  Dumas  has  passed 
any  time  in  England;  but  his  plays  show  a  similar  inti- 

1  The  italics  are  the  author's  own. 


392  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

mate  knowledge  of  our  habits.  Thus  in  Kean,  the  stage- 
manager  is  made  to  come  forward  and  address  the  pit, 
with  a  speech  beginning,  ''My  Lords  and  Gentlemen;  " 
and  a  company  of  Enghshwomen  are  introduced  (at  the 
memorable  "  Coal  Hole  ") ,  and  they  all  wear  yinafores; 
as  if  the  British  female  were  in  the  invariable  habit  of 
wearing  this  outer  garment,  or  slobbering  her  gown  with- 
out it.  There  was  another  celebrated  piece,  enacted  some 
years  since,  upon  the  subject  of  Queen  Caroline,  where 
our  late  adored  sovereign,  George,  was  made  to  play  a 
most  despicable  part ;  and  where  Signor  Bergami  fought 
a  duel  with  Lord  Londonderry.  In  the  last  act  of  this 
play,  the  House  of  Lords  was  represented,  and  Sir 
Brougham  made  an  eloquent  speech  in  the  Queen's 
favour.  Presently  the  shouts  of  the  mob  were  heard 
without;  from  shouting  they  proceed  to  pelting; 
and  pasteboard-brickbats  and  cabbages  came  flying 
among  the  representatives  of  our  hereditary  legislature. 
At  this  unpleasant  juncture,  Sir  Hardinge,  the  Sec- 
retary-at-War,  rises  and  calls  in  the  military;  the  act 
ends  in  a  general  row,  and  the  ignominious  fall  of 
Lord  Liverpool,  laid  low  by  a  brickbat  from  the 
mob ! 

The  description  of  these  scenes  is,  of  course,  quite 
incapable  of  conveying  any  notion  of  their  general  ef- 
fect. You  must  have  the  solemnity  of  the  actors,  as  they 
Meess  and  Milor  one  another,  and  the  perfect  gravity 
and  good  faith  with  which  the  audience  listen  to  them. 
Our  stage  Frenchman  is  the  old  Marquis,  with  sword, 
and  pig-tail,  and  spangled  court  coat.  The  Englishman 
of  the  French  theatre  has,  invariably,  a  red  wig,  and  al- 
most always  leather-gaiters,  and  a  long  white  upper  Ben- 
jamin: he  remains  as  he  was  represented  in  the  old 


FREXCH  DRAMAS 


393 


caricatures  after  the  peace,  when  Vernet  designed  him 
somewhat  after  the  following  fashion— 


And  to  conclude  this  catalogue  of  blunders:  in  the 
famous  piece  of  the  "  Naufrage  de  la  Meduse,"  the  first 
act  is  laid  on  board  an  English  ship-of-war,  all  the  of- 
ficers of  which  appeared  in  light  blue  or  green  coats 
(the  lamp-light  prevented  our  distinguishing  the  colour 
accurately),  and  top-boots! 

y^  ^|v  ♦'  •!•  ^T" 

Let  us  not  attempt  to  deaden  the  force  of  this  tre- 
mendous blow  by  any  more  remarks.  The  force  of 
blundering  can  go  no  further.  Would  a  Chinese  play- 
wright or  painter  have  stranger  notions  about  the  bar- 
barians than  our  neighbours,  who  are  separated  from  us 
but  by  two  hours  of  salt  water? 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES 

THE  palace  of  Versailles  has  been  turned  into  a  bric- 
a-brac  shop  of  late  years,  and  its  time-honoured 
walls  have  been  covered  with  many  thousand  yards  of  the 
worst  pictures  that  eye  ever  looked  on.  I  don't  know 
how  many  leagues  of  battles  and  sieges  the  unhappy  vis- 
itor is  now  obliged  to  march  through,  amidst  a  crowd  of 
chattering  Paris  cockneys,  who  are  never  tired  of  look- 
ing at  the  glories  of  the  Grenadier  Fran^ais ;  to  the  chron- 
icling of  whose  deeds  this  old  palace  of  the  old  kings  is 
now  altogether  devoted.  A  whizzing,  screaming  steam- 
engine  i-ushes  hither  from  Paris,  bringing  shoals  of  ba- 
dauds  in  its  wake.  The  old  coucous  are  all  gone,  and 
their  place  knows  them  no  longer.  Smooth  asphaltum 
terraces,  tawdry  lamps,  and  great  hideous  Egyptian  obe- 
lisks, have  frightened  them  away  from  the  pleasant  sta- 
tion they  used  to  occupj'^  under  the  trees  of  the  Champs 
Elysees;  and  though  the  old  coucous  were  just  the  most 
uncomfortable  vehicles  that  human  ingenuity  ever  con- 
structed, one  can't  help  looking  back  to  the  days  of  their 
existence  with  a  tender  regret;  for  there  was  pleasure 
then  in  the  little  trip  of  three  leagues :  and  who  ever  had 
pleasure  in  a  railroad  journey?  Does  any  reader  of 
this  venture  to  say  that,  on  such  a  voyage,  he  ever  dared 
to  be  pleasant?  Do  the  most  hardened  stokers  joke  with 
one  another?  I  don't  believe  it.  Look  into  every  single 
car  of  the  train,  and  you  will  see  that  every  single  face 
is  solemn.    They  take  their  seats  gravely,  and  are  silent, 

394 


MEDITATIOXS    AT    VERSAILLES    395 

for  the  most  part,  during  the  journey;  they  dare  not 
look  out  of  window,  for  fear  of  being  bhnded  by  the 
smoke  that  comes  whizzing  by,  or  of  losing  their  heads  in 
one  of  the  windows  of  the  down  train ;  they  ride  for  miles 
in  utter  damp  and  darkness:  through  awful  pipes  of 
brick,  that  have  been  run  pitilessly  through  the  bowels 
of  gentle  mother  earth,  the  cast-iron  Frankenstein  of  an 
engine  gallops  on,  puffing  and  screaming.  Does  any 
man  pretend  to  say  that  he  enjoys  the  journey? — he 
might  as  well  say  that  he  enjoyed  having  his  hair  cut; 
he  bears  it,  but  that  is  all :  he  will  not  allow  the  world  to 
laugh  at  him,  for  any  exhibition  of  slavish  fear;  and 
pretends,  therefore,  to  be  at  his  ease;  but  he  is  afraid: 
nay,  ought  to  be,  under  the  circumstances,  I  am  sure 
Hannibal  or  Napoleon  would,  were  they  locked  sud- 
denly into  a  car ;  there  kept  close  prisoners  for  a  certain 
number  of  hours,  and  whirled  along  at  this  dizzy  pace. 
You  can't  stop,  if  you  would:— you  may  die,  but  you 
can't  stop ;  the  engine  may  explode  upon  the  road,  and 
up  you  go  along  with  it ;  or,  may  be  a  bolter,  and  take  a 
fancy  to  go  down  a  hill,  or  into  a  river:  all  this  you  must 
bear,  for  the  privilege  of  travelling  tw  enty  miles  an  hour. 
This  little  journey,  then,  from  Paris  to  Versailles,  that 
used  to  be  so  merry  of  old,  has  lost  its  pleasures  since 
the  disappearance  of  the  coucous;  and  I  would  as  lief 
have  for  companions  the  statues  that  lately  took  a  coach 
from  the  bridge  opposite  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and 
stepped  out  in  the  court  of  Versailles,  as  the  most  part  of 
the  people  who  now  travel  on  the  railroad.  The  stone 
figures  are  not  a  whit  more  cold  and  silent  than  these 
persons,  who  used  to  be,  in  the  old  coucous,  so  talkative 
and  merry.  The  prattling  grisette  and  her  swain  from 
the  Ecole  de  Droit ;  the  huge  Alsatian  carabinier,  grimly 


396  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

smiling  under  his  sandy  moustaches  and  glittering  brass 
helmet;  the  jolly  nurse,  in  red  calico,  who  had  been  to 
Paris  to  show  mamma  her  darling  Lolo,  or  Auguste; 
— what  merry  companions  used  one  to  find  squeezed  into 
the  crazy  old  vehicles  that  formerly  performed  the  jour- 
ney! But  the  age  of  horseflesh  is  gone — that  of  en- 
gineers, economists,  and  calculators  has  succeeded;  and 
the  pleasure  of  coucoudom  is  extinguished  for  ever. 
Why  not  mourn  over  it,  as  ]Mr.  Burke  did  over  his  cheap 
defence  of  nations  and  unbought  grace  of  life ;  that  age 
of  chivalry,  which  he  lamented,  apropos  of  a  trip  to  Ver- 
sailles, some  half  a  century  back? 

Without  stopping  to  discuss  (as  might  be  done,  in 
rather  a  neat  and  successful  manner)  whether  the  age  of 
chivalry  was  cheap  or  dear,  and  whether,  in  the  time  of 
the  unbought  grace  of  life,  there  was  not  more  bribery, 
robbery,  villainy,  tyranny,  and  corruption,  than  exists 
even  in  our  own  happy  days, — let  us  make  a  few  moral 
and  historical  remarks  upon  the  town  of  Versailles; 
where,  between  railroad  and  coucou,  we  are  surely  arrived 
by  this  time. 

The  town  is,  certainly,  the  most  moral  of  towns.  You 
pass  from  the  railroad  station  through  a  long,  lonely 
suburb,  with  dusty  rows  of  stunted  trees  on  either  side, 
and  some  few  miserable  beggars,  idle  boys,  and  ragged 
old  women  under  them.  Behind  the  trees  are  gaunt, 
mouldy  houses;  palaces  once,  where  (in  the  days  of  the 
unbought  grace  of  life)  the  cheap  defence  of  nations 
gambled,  ogled,  swindled,  intrigued;  whence  high-born 
duchesses  used  to  issue,  in  old  times,  to  act  as  chamber- 
maids to  lovely  Du  Barri;  and  mighty  princes  rolled 
away,  in  gilt  caroches,  hot  for  the  honour  of  lighting  his 
Majesty  to  bed,  or  of  presenting  his  stockings  when  he 


MEDITATIOXS    AT    VERSAILLES    397 

rose,  or  of  holding  his  napkin  when  he  dined.  Tailors, 
chandlers,  tinmen,  wretched  hucksters,  and  greengrocers, 
are  now  established  in  the  mansions  of  the  old  peers; 
small  children  are  yelling  at  the  doors,  with  mouths  be- 
smeared with  bread  and  treacle ;  damp  rags  are  hanging 
out  of  every  one  of  the  windows,  steaming  in  the  sun; 
oyster-shells,  cabbage-stalks,  broken  crockery,  old  pa- 
pers, lie  basking  in  the  same  cheerful  light.  A  solitary 
water-cart  goes  jingling  down  the  wide  pavement,  and 
spirts  a  feeble  refreshment  over  the  dusty,  thirsty  stones. 

After  pacing  for  some  time  through  such  dismal 
streets,  we  dehoucJier  on  the  grande  place;  and  before  us 
lies  the  palace  dedicated  to  all  the  glories  of  France.  In 
the  midst  of  the  great  lonely  plain  this  famous  residence 
of  King  Louis  looks  low  and  mean. — Honoured  pile! 
Time  was  when  tall  musketeers  and  gilded  body-guards 
allowed  none  to  pass  the  gate.  Fifty  years  ago,  ten 
thousand  drunken  women  from  Paris  broke  through  the 
charm;  and  now  a  tattered  commissioner  will  conduct 
you  through  it  for  a  penny,  and  lead  you  up  to  the  sacred 
entrance  of  the  palace. 

We  will  not  examine  all  the  glories  of  France,  as  here 
they  are  portrayed  in  pictures  and  marble:  catalogues 
are  written  about  these  miles  of  canvas,  representing  all 
the  revolutionary  battles,  from  Valmv  to  Waterloo, — all 
the  triumphs  of  Louis  XIV.— all  the  mistresses  of  his 
successor — and  all  the  great  men  who  have  flourished 
since  the  French  emjDire  began.  INIilitary  heroes  are 
most  of  these — fierce  constables  in  shining  steel,  marshals 
in  voluminous  wigs,  and  brave  grenadiers  in  bearskin 
caps ;  some  dozens  of  whom  gained  crowns,  principalities, 
dukedoms;  some  hundreds,  plunder  and  epaulets;  some 
millions,  death  in  African  sands,  or  in  icy  Russian  plains. 


398  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

under  the  guidance,  and  for  the  good,  of  that  arch-hero, 
Napoleon.  By  far  the  greater  part  of  "  all  the  glories  " 
of  France  (as  of  most  other  countries)  is  made  up  of 
these  military  men :  and  a  fine  satire  it  is  on  the  cowardice 
of  mankind,  that  they  pay  such  an  extraordinary  homage 
to  the  virtue  called  courage;  filling  their  history -books 
with  tales  about  it,  and  nothing  but  it. 

Let  them  disguise  the  place,  however,  as  they  will,  and 
plaster  the  walls  with  bad  pictures  as  they  please,  it  will 
be  hard  to  think  of  any  family  but  one,  as  one  traverses 
this  vast  gloomy  edifice.  It  has  not  been  humbled  to  the 
ground,  as  a  certain  palace  of  Babel  was  of  yore;  but  it 
is  a  monument  of  fallen  pride,  not  less  awful,  and  would 
afford  matter  for  a  whole  library  of  sermons.  The  cheap 
defence  of  nations  expended  a  thousand  millions  in  the 
erection  of  this  magnificent  dwelling-place.  Armies 
were  employed,  in  the  intervals  of  their  warlike  labours, 
to  level  hills,  or  pile  them  up;  to  turn  rivers,  and  to 
build  aqueducts,  and  transplant  woods,  and  construct 
smooth  terraces,  and  long  canals.  A  vast  garden  grew 
up  in  a  wilderness,  and  a  stupendous  palace  in  the  gar- 
den, and  a  stately  city  round  the  palace:  the  city  was 
peopled  with  parasites,  who  daily  came  to  do  worship 
before  the  creator  of  these  wonders— the  Great  King. 
"  Dieu  seul  est  grand,"  said  courtly  Massillon ;  but  next 
to  him,  as  the  prelate  thought,  was  certainly  Louis,  his 
vicegerent  here  upon  earth— God's  lieutenant-governor 
of  the  world, — before  whom  courtiers  used  to  fall  on 
their  knees,  and  shade  their  eyes,  as  if  the  light  of  his 
countenance,  like  the  sun,  which  shone  supreme  in 
heaven,  the  type  of  him,  was  too  dazzling  to  bear. 

Did  ever  the  sun  shine  upon  such  a  king  before,  in 
such  a  palace? — or,  rather,  did  such  a  king  ever  shine 


MEDITATIONS   AT   VERSAILLES     399 

upon  the  sun?  When  Majesty  came  out  of  his  chamber, 
in  the  midst  of  his  superhuman  splendours,  viz.  in  his 
cinnamon-coloured  coat,  embroidered  with  diamonds ;  his 
pyramid  of  a  wig;^  his  red-heeled  shoes,  that  lifted  him 
four  inches  from  the  ground,  "  that  he  scarcely  seemed 
to  touch ; "  when  he  came  out,  blazing  upon  the  dukes  and 
duchesses  that  waited  his  rising, — what  could  the  latter 
do,  but  cover  their  eyes  and  wink,  and  tremble?  And 
did  he  not  himself  believe,  as  he  stood  there,  on  his  high 
heels,  under  his  ambrosial  periwig,  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  him  more  than  man— something  above  Fate? 

This,  doubtless,  was  he  fain  to  believe ;  and  if,  on  very 
fine  days,  from  his  terrace  before  his  gloomy  palace  of 
Saint  Germains,  he  could  catch  a  glimpse,  in  the  distance, 
of  a  certain  white  spire  of  St.  Denis,  where  his  race  lay 
buried,  he  would  say  to  his  courtiers,  with  a  sublime  con- 
descension, "  Gentlemen,  you  must  remember  that  I, 
too,  am  mortal."  Surely  the  lords  in  waiting  could 
hardly  think  him  serious,  and  vowed  that  his  Majesty 
always  loved  a  joke.  However,  mortal  or  not,  the  sight 
of  that  sharp  spire  wounded  his  Majesty's  eyes;  and  is 
said,  by  the  legend,  to  have  caused  the  building  of  the 
palace  of  Babel- Versailles. 

In  the  year  1681,  then,  the  great  king,  with  bag  and 
baggage, — with  guards,  cooks,  chamberlains,  mistresses, 
Jesuits,  gentlemen,  lackeys,  Fenelons,  Molieres,  Lau- 
zuns,  Bossuets,  Villars,  Villeroys,  Louvois,  Colberts, 
—transported  himself  to  his  new  palace:  the  old  one 
being  left  for  James  of  England  and  Jaquette  his  wife, 
when  their  time  should  come.  And  when  the  time  did 
come,  and  James  sought  his  brother's  kingdom,  it  is  on 

^  It  is  fine  to  think  that,  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  his  Majesty  Louis  XIV. 
used  to  powder  his  wig  with  gold-dust. 


400  THE    PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

record  that  Louis  hastened  to  receive  and  console  him, 
and  promised  to  restore,  incontinently,  those  islands  from 
which  the  canaille  had  tm-ned  him.  Between  brothers 
such  a  gift  was  a  trifle ;  and  the  courtiers  said  to  one  an- 
other reverently,^  "  The  Lord  said  unto  my  Lord,  Sit 
thou  on  my  right  hand,  until  I  make  thine  enemies  thy 
footstool."  There  was  no  blasphemy  in  the  speech:  on 
the  contrary,  it  was  gravely  said,  by  a  faithful  believing 
man,  who  thought  it  no  shame  to  the  latter,  to  compare 
his  Majesty  with  God  Almighty.  Indeed,  the  books 
of  the  time  will  give  one  a  strong  idea  how  general  was 
this  Louis-worship.  I  have  just  been  looking  at  one, 
which  was  written  by  an  honest  Jesuit  and  protege  of 
Pere  la  Chaise,  who  dedicates  a  book  of  medals  to  the 
august  Infants  of  France,  which  does,  indeed,  go  almost 
as  far  in  print.  He  calls  our  famous  monarch  "  Louis 
le  Grand:  —  !,  I'invincible;  2,  le  sage;  3,  le  conquerant; 
4,  la  merveille  de  son  siecle ;  5,  la  terreur  de  ses  ennemis ; 
6,  I'amour  de  ses  peuples ;  7,  I'arbitre  de  la  paix  et  de  la 
guerre ;  8, 1'admiration  de  I'univers ;  9,  et  digne  d'en  etre 
le  maitre;  10,  le  modele  d'un  heros  acheve;  11,  digne  de 
I'immortalite,  et  de  la  veneration  de  tons  les  siecles!  " 

A  pretty  Jesuit  declaration,  truly,  and  a  good  honest 
judgment  upon  the  great  king!  In  thirty  years  more 
—  1.  The  invincible  had  been  beaten  a  vast  number  of 
times.  2.  The  sage  was  the  puppet  of  an  artful  old 
woman,  who  was  the  puppet  of  more  artful  priests.  3. 
The  conqueror  had  quite  forgotten  his  early  knack 
of  conquering.  5.  The  terror  of  his  enemies  (for  4,  the 
marvel  of  his  age,  we  pretermit,  it  being  a  loose  term, 
that  may  apply  to  any  person  or  thing)  was  now  terri- 

1  I  think  it  is  in  the  amusing  "  Memoirs  of  Madame  de  Crequi "  (a  forgery, 
but  a  work  remarkable  for  its  learning  and  accuracy)  that  the  above  anec- 
dote is  related. 


MEDITATIONS   AT   VERSAILLES     401 

fied  by  his  enemies  in  turn.  G.  The  love  of  his  people 
was  as  heartily  detested  by  them  as  scarcely  any  other 
monarch,  not  even  his  great-grandson,  has  been,  before 
or  since.  7-  The  arbiter  of  peace  and  war  was  fain  to 
send  superb  ambassadors  to  kick  their  heels  in  Dutch 
shopkeepers'  antechambers.  8,  is  again  a  general  term. 
9.  The  man  fit  to  be  master  of  the  universe,  was  scarcely 
master  of  his  own  kingdom.  10.  The  finished  hero  was 
all  but  finished,  in  a  very  commonplace  and  vulgar  way. 
And  11.  The  man  worthy  of  immortality  was  just  at 
the  point  of  death,  without  a  friend  to  soothe  or  deplore 
him ;  only  withered  old  IVIaintenon  to  utter  prayers  at  his 
bedside,  and  croaking  Jesuits  to  prepare  him,^  with 
heaven  knows  what  wretched  tricks  and  mummeries,  for 
his  appearance  in  that  Great  Republic  that  lies  on  the 
other  side  of  the  grave.  In  the  course  of  his  fourscore 
splendid  miserable  j^ears,  he  never  had  but  one  friend, 
and  he  ruined  and  left  her.  Poor  La  Valliere,  what  a 
sad  tale  is  yours!  "  Look  at  this  Galerie  des  Glaces," 
cries  Monsieur  Vatout,  staggering  with  surprise  at  the 
appearance  of  the  room,  two  hundred  and  forty-two  feet 
long,  and  forty  high.  "  Here  it  was  that  Louis  dis- 
played all  the  grandeur  of  royalty;  and  such  was  the 
splendour  of  his  court,  and  the  luxury  of  the  times, 
that  this  immense  room  could  hardly  contain  the  crowd 
of  courtiers  that  pressed  around  the  monarch."  Won- 
derful! wonderful!  Eight  thousand  four  hundred  and 
sixty  square  feet  of  courtiers!  Give  a  square  yard  to 
each,  and  you  have  a  matter  of  three  thousand  of  them. 
Think  of  three  thousand  courtiers  per  day,  and  all  the 
chopping  and  changing  of  them  for  near  forty  years: 
some  of  them  dying,  some  getting  their  wishes,  and  re- 

1  They  made  a  Jesuit  of  him  on  his  death-bed. 


402         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

tiring  to  their  provinces  to  enjoy  their  plunder;  some  dis- 
graced, and  going  home  to  pine  away  out  of  the  hght 
of  the  sun;^  new  ones  perpetually  arriving, — pushing, 
squeezing,  for  their  place,  in  the  crowded  Galerie  des 
Glaces.  A  quarter  of  a  million  of  noble  countenances, 
at  the  very  least,  must  those  glasses  have  reflected. 
Rouge,  diamonds,  ribands,  patches,  upon  the  faces  of 
smiling  ladies:  towering  periwigs,  sleek-shaven  crowns, 
tufted  moustaches,  scars,  and  grizzled  whiskers,  worn 
by  ministers,  priests,  dandies,  and  grim  old  commanders. 
—  So  many  faces,  O  ye  gods !  and  every  one  of  them  lies ! 
So  many  tongues,  vowing  devotion  and  respectful  love 
to  the  great  king  in  his  six-inch  wig;  and  only  poor  La 
Valliere's  amongst  them  all  which  had  a  word  of  truth 
for  the  dull  ears  of  Louis  of  Bourbon. 

"  Quand  j'aurai  de  la  peine  aux  Carmelites,"  says 
unhappy  Louise,  about  to  retire  from  these  magnificent 
courtiers  and  their  grand  Galerie  des  Glaces,  "  je  me 
souviendrai  de  ce  que  ces  gens  la  m'ont  fait  soufl'rir ! " 
— A  troop  of  Bossuets  inveighing  against  the  vanities  of 
courts  could  not  preach  such  an  affecting  sermon.  What 
years  of  anguish  and  wrong  had  the  poor  thing  suf- 
fered, before  these  sad  words  came  from  her  gentle 
lips!  How  these  courtiers  have  bowed  and  flattered, 
kissed  the  ground  on  which  she  trod,  fought  to  have  the 
honour  of  riding  by  her  carriage,  written  sonnets,  and 
called  her  goddess;  who,  in  the  days  of  her  prosperity, 
was  kind  and  beneficent,  gentle  and  compassionate  to 
all;  then  (on  a  certain  day,  when  it  is  whispered  that 
his  Majesty  hath  cast  the  eyes  of  his  gracious  affection 
upon  another)    behold  three  thousand  courtiers  are  at 

^  Saint  Simon's  account  of  Lauzun,  in  disgrace,  is  admirably  facetious  and 
pathetic;  Lauzun's  regrets  are  as  monstrous  as  those  of  Raleigh  when  deprived 
of  the  sight  of  his  adorable  Queen  and  Mistress,  Elizabeth. 


MEDITATIONS   AT   VERSAILLES     403 

the  feet  of  the  new  divinity.—"  O  divine  Athenais!  what 
blockheads  have  we  been  to  worship  any  but  you.— That 
a  goddess? — a  pretty  goddess  forsooth; — a  witch,  rather, 
who,  for  a  while,  kept  our  gracious  monarch  blind  I  Look 
at  her:  the  woman  limps  as  she  walks;  and,  by  sacred 
Venus,  her  mouth  stretches  almost  to  her  diamond  ear- 
rings! "  *  The  same  tale  may  be  told  of  many  more  de- 
serted mistresses;  and  fair  Athenais  de  Montespan  was 
to  hear  it  of  herself  one  day.  Meantime,  while  La 
Valliere's  heart  is  breaking,  the  model  of  a  finished  hero 
is  yawning ;  as,  on  such  paltry  occasions,  a  finished  hero 
should.  Let  her  heart  break:  a  plague  upon  her  tears 
and  repentance;  what  right  has  she  to  repent?  Away 
with  her  to  her  convent.  She  goes,  and  the  finished  hero 
never  sheds  a  tear.  What  a  noble  pitch  of  stoicism  to 
have  reached!  Our  Louis  was  so  great,  that  the  little 
woes  of  mean  people  were  beyond  him :  his  friends  died, 
his  mistresses  left  him;  his  children,  one  by  one,  were 
cut  off  before  his  eyes,  and  great  Louis  is  not  moved  in 
the  slightest  degree!  As  how,  indeed,  should  a  god  be 
moved  ? 

I  have  often  liked  to  think  about  this  strange  character 
in  the  world,  who  moved  in  it,  bearing  about  a  full  belief 
in  his  own  infallibility;  teaching  his  generals  the  art  of 
M^ar,  his  ministers  the  science  of  government,  his  wits 
taste,  his  courtiers  dress ;  ordering  deserts  to  become  gar- 
dens, turning  villages  into  palaces  at  a  breath;  and  in- 
deed the  august  figure  of  the  man,  as  he  towers  upon  his 
throne,  cannot  fail  to  inspire  one  with  respect  and  awe: 
— how  grand  those  flowing  locks  appear;  how  awful 
that  sceptre;  how  magnificent  those  flowing  robes!    In 

'  A  pair  of  diamond  ear-rings,  given  by  the  King  to  La  Vallifere,  caused  much 
scandal;  and  some  lampoons  are  extant,  which  impugn  the  taste  of  Louis  XIV. 
for  loving  a  lady  with  such  an  enormous  mouth. 


404  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

Louis,  surely,  if  in  any  one,  the  majesty  of  kinghood  is 
represented. 

But  a  king  is  not  every  inch  a  king,  for  all  the  poet 
may  say;  and  it  is  curious  to  see  how  much  precise  maj- 
esty there  is  in  that  majestic  figure  of  Ludovicus  Rex. 
In  the  plate  opposite,  we  have  endeavoured  to  make  the 
exact  calculation.  The  idea  of  kingly  dignity  is  equally 
strong  in  the  two  outer  figures ;  and  you  see,  at  once,  that 
majesty  is  made  out  of  the  wig,  the  high -heeled  shoes, 
and  cloak,  all  fleurs-de-lis  bespangled.  As  for  the  little 
lean,  shrivelled,  paunchy  old  man,  of  five  feet  two,  in  a 
jacket  and  breeches,  there  is  no  majesty  in  him  at  any 
rate;  and  yet  he  has  just  stepped  out  of  that  very  suit 
of  clothes.  Put  the  wig  and  shoes  on  him,  and  he  is 
six  feet  high; — the  other  fripperies,  and  he  stands  before 
you  majestic,  imperial,  and  heroic!  Thus  do  barbers  and 
cobblers  make  the  gods  that  we  worship:  for  do  we  not 
all  worship  him?  Yes;  though  we  all  know  him  to  be 
stupid,  heartless,  short,  of  doubtful  personal  courage, 
worship  and  admire  him  we  must ;  and  have  set  up,  in  our 
hearts,  a  grand  image  of  him,  endowed  with  wit,  mag- 
nanimity, valour,  and  enormous  heroical  stature. 

And  what  magnanimous  acts  are  attributed  to  him! 
or,  rather,  how  differently  do  we  view  the  actions  of 
heroes  and  common  men,  and  find  that  the  same  thing 
shall  be  a  wonderful  virtue  in  the  former,  which,  in  the 
latter,  is  only  an  ordinary  act  of  duty.  Look  at  yonder 
window  of  the  king's  chamber;  —  one  morning  a  royal 
cane  was  seen  whirling  out  of  it,  and  plumped  among 
the  courtiers  and  guard  of  honour  below.  King  Louis 
had  absolutely,  and  with  his  own  hand,  flung  his  own 
cane  out  of  the  window,  "  because,"  said  he,  "  I  won't 
demean  myself  by  striking  a  gentleman!"     Q  miracle 


«?» 
3 


8 


MEDITATIONS    AT    VERSAILLES    405 

of  magnanimity!  Lauzun  was  not  caned,  because  he 
besought  majesty  to  keep  his  promise, — only  imprisoned 
for  ten  years  in  Pignerol,  along  with  banished  Fouquet ; 
— and  a  pretty  story  is  Fouquet's  too. 

Out  of  the  window  the  king's  august  head  was  one  day 
thrust,  when  old  Conde  was  painfully  toiling  up  the  steps 
of  the  court  below.  "  Don't  hurry  yourself,  my  cousin," 
cries  Magnanimity;  "one  who  has  to  carry  so  many 
laurels  cannot  walk  fast."  At  which  all  the  courtiers, 
lackeys,  mistresses,  chamberlains,  Jesuits,  and  scullions, 
clasp  their  hands  and  burst  into  tears.  Men  are  aiFected 
by  the  tale  to  this  very  day.  For  a  century  and  three- 
quarters,  have  not  all  the  books  that  speak  of  Versailles, 
or  Louis  Quatorze,  told  the  story? — "  Don't  hurry  your- 
self, my  cousin!"  O  admirable  king  and  Christian! 
what  a  pitch  of  condescension  is  here,  that  the  greatest 
king  of  all  the  world  should  go  for  to  say  anything  so 
kind,  and  really  tell  a  tottering  old  gentleman,  worn  out 
with  gout,  age,  and  wounds,  not  to  walk  too  fast ! 

What  a  proper  fund  of  slavishness  is  there  in  the  com- 
position of  mankind  that  histories  like  these  should  be 
found  to  interest  and  awe  them.  Till  the  world's  end, 
most  likely,  this  story  will  have  its  place  in  the  history- 
books  ;  and  unborn  generations  will  read  it,  and  tenderly 
be  moved  by  it.  I  am  sure  that  INIagnanimity  went  to 
bed  that  night,  pleased  and  happy,  intimately  convinced 
that  he  had  done  an  action  of  sublime  virtue,  and  had 
easy  slumbers  and  sweet  dreams,— especially  if  he  had 
taken  a  light  supper,  and  not  too  vehemently  attacked  his 
en  cas  de  nuit. 

That  famous  adventure,  in  which  the  en  cas  de  nuit 
was  brought  into  use,  for  the  sake  of  one  Poquelin  alias 
Moliere:— how  often  has  it  been  described  and  admired? 


406         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

This  Poquelin,  though  king's  valet-de-chambre,  was  by 
profession  a  vagrant;  and  as  such,  looked  coldly  on  by 
the  great  lords  of  the  palace,  who  refused  to  eat  with 
him.  Majesty  hearing  of  this,  ordered  his  en  cas  de 
nuit  to  be  placed  on  the  table,  and  positively  cut  off  a 
wing  with  his  own  knife  and  fork  for  Poquelin's  use.  O 
thrice  happy  Jean  Baptiste!  The  king  has  actually  sat 
down  with  him  cheek  by  jowl,  had  the  liver-wing  of  a 
fowl,  and  given  Moliere  the  gizzard;  put  his  imperial 
legs  under  the  same  mahogany  (sub  iisdem  trahibus) . 
A  man,  after  such  an  honour,  can  look  for  little  else 
in  this  world :  he  has  tasted  the  utmost  conceivable  earthly 
happiness,  and  has  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  fold  his 
arms,  look  up  to  heaven,  and  sing  "  Nunc  dimittis  " 
and  die. 

Do  not  let  us  abuse  poor  old  Louis  on  account  of  this 
monstrous  pride;  but  only  lay  it  to  the  charge  of  the 
fools  who  believed  and  worshipped  it.  If,  honest  man, 
he  believed  himself  to  be  almost  a  god,  it  was  only  be- 
cause thousands  of  people  had  told  him  so — people  only 
half  liars,  too ;  who  did,  in  the  depths  of  their  slavish  re- 
spect, admire  the  man  almost  as  much  as  they  said  they 
did.  If,  when  he  appeared  in  his  five-hundred-million 
coat,  as  he  is  said  to  have  done,  before  the  Siamese  am- 
bassadors, the  courtiers  began  to  shade  their  eyes  and 
long  for  parasols,  as  if  this  Bourbonic  sun  was  too  hot 
for  them;  indeed,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  should  believe 
that  there  was  something  dazzling  about  his  person:  he 
had  half  a  million  of  eager  testimonies  to  this  idea.  Who 
was  to  tell  him  the  truth? — Only  in  the  last  years  of  his 
life  did  trembling  courtiers  dare  whisper  to  him,  after 
much  circumlocution,  that  a  certain  battle  had  been 
fought  at  a  place  called  Blenheim,  and  that  Eugene 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES     407 

and  Marlborough  had  stopped  his  long  career  of  tri- 
umphs. 

"  On  n'est  plus  heureux  a  notre  age,"  says  the  old  man, 
to  one  of  his  old  generals,  welcoming  Tallard  after  his 
defeat;  and  he  rewards  him  with  honours,  as  if  he  had 
come  from  a  victory.  There  is,  if  you  will,  something 
magnanimous  in  this  welcome  to  his  conquered  general, 
this  stout  protest  against  Fate.  Disaster  succeeds  dis- 
aster; armies  after  armies  march  out  to  meet  fiery  Eu- 
gene and  that  dogged,  fatal  Englishman,  and  disappear 
in  the  smoke  of  the  enemies'  cannon.  Even  at  Versailles 
j'^ou  may  almost  hear  it  roaring  at  last;  but  when  cour- 
tiers, who  have  forgotten  their  god,  now  talk  of  quitting 
this  grand  temple  of  his,  old  Louis  plucks  up  heart  and 
will  never  hear  of  surrender.  All  the  gold  and  silver  at 
Versailles  he  melts,  to  find  bread  for  his  armies:  all  the 
jewels  on  his  five-hundred-million  coat  he  pawns  reso- 
lutely; and,  bidding  Villars  go  and  make  the  last  struggle 
but  one,  promises,  if  his  general  is  defeated,  to  place  him- 
self at  the  head  of  his  nobles,  and  die  King  of  France. 
Indeed,  after  a  man,  for  sixty  years,  has  been  performing 
the  part  of  a  hero,  some  of  the  real  heroic  stuff  must  have 
entered  into  his  composition,  whether  he  would  or  not. 
When  the  great  Elliston  was  enacting  the  part  of  King 
George  the  Fourth,  in  the  play  of  "  The  Coronation," 
at  Drury  Lane,  the  galleries  applauded  very  loudly  his 
suavity  and  majestic  demeanour,  at  which  Elliston,  in- 
flamed by  the  popular  loyalty  (and  by  some  fermented 
liquor  in  which,  it  is  said,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  indulg- 
ing), burst  into  tears,  and,  spreading  out  his  arms,  ex- 
claimed: "  Bless  ye,  bless  ye,  my  people!  "  Don't  let  us 
laugh  at  his  Ellistonian  majesty,  nor  at  the  people  who 
clapped  hands  and  yelled  "bravo!"  in  praise  of  him. 


408         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

The  tipsy  old  manager  did  really  feel  that  he  was  a  hero 
at  that  moment;  and  the  people,  wild  with  delight  and 
attachment  for  a  magnificent  coat  and  breeches,  surely 
were  uttering  the  true  sentiments  of  loyalty :  which  con- 
sists in  reverencing  these  and  other  articles  of  costume. 
In  this  fifth  act,  then,  of  his  long  royal  drama,  old  Louis 
performed  his  part  excellently;  and  when  the  curtain 
drops  upon  him,  he  lies,  dressed  majestically,  in  a  be- 
coming kingly  attitude,  as  a  king  should. 

The  king  his  successor  has  not  left,  at  Versailles,  half 
so  much  occasion  for  moralizing;  perhaps  the  neighbour- 
ing Pare  aux  Cerfs  would  afford  better  illustrations  of 
his  reign.  The  life  of  his  great  grandsire,  the  Grand 
Lama  of  France,  seems  to  have  frightened  Louis  the 
well-beloved;  who  understood  that  loneliness  is  one  of 
the  necessary  conditions  of  divinity,  and  being  of  a  jo- 
vial, companionable  turn,  aspired  not  beyond  manhood. 
Only  in  the  matter  of  ladies  did  he  surpass  his  prede- 
cessor, as  Solomon  did  David.  War  he  eschewed,  as  his 
grandfather  bade  him ;  and  his  simple  taste  found  little 
in  this  world  to  enjoy  beyond  the  mulling  of  chocolate 
and  the  frying  of  pancakes.  Look,  here  is  the  room 
called  Laboratoire  du  Roi,  where,  with  his  own  hands, 
he  made  his  mistress's  breakfast:— here  is  the  little  door 
through  which,  from  her  apartments  in  the  upper  story, 
the  chaste  Du  Barri  came  stealing  down  to  the  arms  of 
the  weary,  feeble,  gloomy  old  man.  But  of  women  he 
was  tired  long  since,  and  even  pancake-frying  had  palled 
upon  him.  What  had  he  to  do,  after  forty  years  of 
reign;— after  having  exhausted  everything?  Every 
pleasure  that  Dubois  could  invent  for  his  hot  youth, 
or  cunning  Lebel  could  minister  to  his  old  age,  was  flat 
and  stale;  used  up  to  the  very  dregs:  every  shilling  in 


MEDITATIONS  AT  VERSAILLES     409 

the  national  purse  had  been  squeezed  out,  by  Pompadour 
and  Du  Barri  and  such  brilUant  ministers  of  state.  He 
had  found  out  the  vanity  of  pleasure,  as  his  ancestor  had 
discovered  the  vanity  of  glory:  indeed  it  was  high  time 
that  he  should  die.  And  die  he  did ;  and  round  his  tomb, 
as  round  that  of  his  grandfather  before  him,  the  starving 
people  sang  a  dreadful  chorus  of  curses,  which  were  the 
only  epitaphs  for  good  or  for  evil  that  were  raised  to  his 
memory. 

As  for  the  courtiers— the  knights  and  nobles,  the  un- 
bought  grace  of  life— they,  of  course,  forgot  him  in  one 
minute  after  his  death,  as  the  way  is.  When  the  king 
dies,  the  officer  appointed  opens  his  chamber  window,  and 
calling  out  into  the  court  below,  JLe  Roi  est  mort,  breaks 
his  cane,  takes  another  and  waves  it,  exclaiming,  Vive 
le  Roi!  Straightway  all  the  loyal  nobles  begin  yelling 
Vive  le  Roi!  and  the  officer  goes  round  solemnly  and  sets 
yonder  great  clock  in  the  Cour  de  Marbre  to  the  hour  of 
the  king's  death.  This  old  Louis  had  solemnly  ordained ; 
but  the  Versailles  clock  was  only  set  twice:  there  was 
no  shouting  of  Vive  le  Roi  when  the  successor  of  Louis 
XV.  mounted  to  heaven  to  join  his  sainted  family. 

Strange  stories  of  the  deaths  of  kings  have  always 
been  very  recreating  and  profitable  to  us:  what  a  fine 
one  is  that  of  the  death  of  Louis  XV.,  as  Madame  Cam- 
pan  tells  it.  One  night  the  gracious  monarch  came  back 
ill  from  Trianon ;  the  disease  turned  out  to  be  the  small- 
pox; so  violent  that  ten  people  of  those  who  had  to 
enter  his  chamber  caught  the  infection  and  died.  The 
whole  court  flies  from  him ;  only  poor  old  fat  Mesdames 
the  King's  daughters  persist  in  remaining  at  his  bedside, 
and  praying  for  his  soul's  welfare. 

On  the  10th  May,  1774,  the  whole  court  had  assembled 


410  THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

at  the  chateau;  the  CEil  de  Boeuf  was  full.  The  Dau- 
phin had  determined  to  depart  as  soon  as  the  king  had 
breathed  his  last.  And  it  was  agreed  by  the  people  of 
the  stables,  with  those  who  watched  in  the  king's  room, 
that  a  lighted  candle  should  be  placed  in  a  window,  and 
should  be  extinguished  as  soon  as  he  had  ceased  to  live. 
The  candle  was  put  out.  At  that  signal,  guards,  pages, 
and  squires  mounted  on  horseback,  and  everything  was 
made  ready  for  departure.  The  Dauphin  was  with  the 
Dauphiness,  waiting  together  for  the  news  of  the  king's 
demise.  A71  immense  noise,  as  if  of  thunder,  was  heard 
in  the  next  room;  it  was  the  crowd  of  courtiers,  who  were 
deserting  the  dead  king's  apartment,  in  order  to  pay  their 
court  to  the  new  power  of  Louis  XVI.  Madame  de 
Noailles  entered,  and  was  the  first  to  salute  the  queen 
by  her  title  of  Queen  of  France,  and  begged  their  Maj- 
esties to  quit  their  apartments,  to  receive  the  princes  and 
great  lords  of  the  court  desirous  to  pay  their  homage  to 
the  new  sovereigns.  Leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  a 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  in  the  most  touching  attitude, 
Marie  Antoinette  received  these  first  visits.  On  quitting 
the  chamber  where  the  dead  king  lay,  the  Due  de  Vil- 
lequier  bade  M.  Anderville,  first  surgeon  of  the  king, 
to  open  and  embalm  the  body :  it  would  have  been  certain 
death  to  the  surgeon.  "  I  am  ready,  sir,"  said  he;  "  but 
whilst  I  am  operating,  you  must  hold  the  head  of  the 
corpse :  your  charge  demands  it."  The  Duke  went  away 
without  a  word,  and  the  body  was  neither  opened  nor 
embalmed.  A  few  humble  domestics  and  poor  workmen 
watched  by  the  remains,  and  performed  the  last  offices  to 
their  master.  The  surgeons  ordered  spirits  of  wine  to 
be  poured  into  the  coffin. 

They  huddled  the  king's  body  into  a  postchaise ;  and  in 


MEDITATIONS    AT   VERSAILLES     411 

this  deplorable  equipage,  with  an  escort  of  about  forty 
men,  Louis  the  well-beloved  was  carried,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  from  Versailles  to  Saint  Denis,  and  then  thrown 
into  the  tomb  of  the  kings  of  France! 

If  any  man  is  curious,  and  can  get  permission,  he  may 
mount  to  the  roof  of  the  palace,  and  see  where  Louis 
XVI.  used  royally  to  amuse  himself,  by  gazing  upon  the 
doings  of  all  the  townspeople  below  with  a  telescope. 
Behold  that  balcony,  where,  one  morning,  he,  his  queen, 
and  the  little  Dauphin  stood,  with  Cromwell  Grandison 
Lafayette  by  their  side,  who  kissed  her  Majesty's  hand, 
and  protected  her ;  and  then,  lovingly  surrounded  by  his 
people,  the  king  got  into  a  coach  and  came  to  Paris :  nor 
did  his  Majesty  ride  much  in  coaches  after  that. 

There  is  a  portrait  of  the  king,  in  the  upper  galleries, 
clothed  in  red  and  gold,  riding  a  fat  horse,  brandishing 
a  sword,  on  which  the  word  "  Justice  "  is  inscribed,  and 
looking  remarkably  stupid  and  uncomfortable.  You  see 
that  the  horse  will  throw  him  at  the  very  first  fling; 
and  as  for  the  sword,  it  never  was  made  for  such  hands 
as  his,  which  were  good  at  holding  a  corkscrew  or  a 
carving-knife,  but  not  clever  at  the  management  of 
weapons  of  war.  Let  those  pity  him  who  will :  call  him 
saint  and  martyr  if  you  please;  but  a  martyr  to  what 
principle  was  he?  Did  he  frankly  support  either  party 
in  his  kingdom,  or  cheat  and  tamper  with  both?  He 
might  have  escaped;  but  he  must  have  his  supper:  and 
so  his  family  was  butchered  and  his  kingdom  lost,  and 
he  had  his  bottle  of  Burgundy  in  comfort  at  Varennes. 
A  single  charge  upon  the  fatal  tenth  of  August,  and 
the  monarchy  might  have  been  his  once  more;  but  he 
is  so  tender-hearted,  that  he  lets  his  friends  be  murdered 
before  his  eyes  almost:  or,  at  least,  when  he  has  turned 


412         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

his  back  upon  his  duty  and  his  kingdom,  and  has  skulked 
for  safety  into  the  reporters'  box,  at  the  National  Assem- 
bly. There  were  hundreds  of  brave  men  who  died  that 
day,  and  were  martyrs,  if  you  will ;  poor  neglected  tenth- 
rate  courtiers,  for  the  most  part,  who  had  forgotten  old 
slights  and  disappointments,  and  left  their  places  of 
safety  to  come  and  die,  if  need  were,  sharing  in  the  su- 
preme hour  of  the  monarchy.  Monarchy  was  a  great 
deal  too  humane  to  fight  along  with  these,  and  so  left 
them  to  the  pikes  of  Santerre  and  the  mercy  of  the  men 
of  the  Sections.  But  we  are  wandering  a  good  ten  miles 
from  Versailles,  and  from  the  deeds  which  Louis  XVI. 
performed  there. 

He  is  said  to  have  been  such  a  smart  journeyman 
blacksmitli,  that  he  might,  if  Fate  had  not  perversely 
placed  a  crown  on  his  head,  have  earned  a  couple  of  louis 
every  week  by  the  making  of  locks  and  keys.  Those 
who  will,  may  see  the  workshop  where  he  employed 
manj^  useful  hours:  Madame  Elizabeth  was  at  prayers 
meanwhile ;  the  queen  was  making  pleasant  parties  with 
her  ladies ;  Monsieur  the  Count  d' Artois  was  learning  to 
dance  on  the  tight-rope;  and  Monsieur  de  Provence  was 
cultivating  V eloquence  du  billet  and  studying  his  favour- 
ite Horace.  It  is  said  that  each  member  of  the  august 
family  succeeded  remarkably  well  in  his  or  her  pursuits ; 
big  Monsieur's  little  notes  are  still  cited.  At  a  minuet  or 
sillabub,  poor  Antoinette  was  unrivalled;  and  Charles, 
on  the  tight-rope,  was  so  graceful  and  so  gentil,  that 
Madame  Saqui  might  envy  him.  The  time  only  was  out 
of  joint.  O  cursed  spite,  that  ever  such  harmless  crea- 
tures as  these  were  bidden  to  right  it ! 

A  walk  to  the  little  Trianon  is  both  pleasing  and 
moral :  no  doubt  the  reader  has  seen  the  pretty  fantastical 


MEDITATIONS   AT   VERSAILLES     413 

gardens  which  environ  it;  the  groves  and  temples;  the 
streams  and  caverns  (whither,  as  the  guide  tells  you,  dur- 
ing the  heat  of  summer,  it  was  the  custom  of  INIarie 
Antoinette  to  retire,  with  her  favourite,  JNIadame  de 
Lamballe)  :  the  lake  and  Swiss  village  are  pretty  little 
toys,  moreover;  and  the  cicerone  of  the  place  does  not 
fail  to  point  out  the  different  cottages  which  surround 
the  piece  of  water,  and  tell  the  names  of  the  royal  mas- 
queraders  who  inhabited  each.  In  the  long  cottage,  close 
upon  the  lake,  dwelt  the  Seigneur  du  Village,  no  less  a 
personage  than  Louis  XV.;  Louis  XVI.,  the  Dauphin, 
was  the  Bailli;  near  his  cottage  is  that  of  JNIonseigneur 
the  Count  d'Artois,  who  Avas  the  IVIiller;  opposite  lived 
the  Prince  de  Ccnde,  who  enacted  the  part  of  Game- 
keeper (or,  indeed,  any  other  role,  for  it  does  not  signify 
much)  ;  near  him  was  the  Prince  de  Rohan,  who  was  the 
Aumonier ;  and  yonder  is  the  pretty  little  dairy  which  was 
under  the  charge  of  the  fair  IMarie  Antoinette  herself. 

I  forget  whether  Monsieur  the  fat  Count  of  Provence 
took  any  share  of  this  royal  masquerading;  but  look  at 
the  names  of  the  other  six  actors  of  the  comedy,  and  it 
will  be  hard  to  find  any  person  for  whom  Fate  had 
such  dreadful  visitations  in  store.  Fancy  the  party,  in  the 
days  of  their  prosperity,  here  gathered  at  Trianon,  and 
seated  under  the  tall  poplars  by  the  lake,  discoursing 
familiarly  together:  suppose,  of  a  sudden,  some  conjur- 
ing Cagliostro  of  the  time  is  introduced  among  them, 
and  foretells  to  them  the  w^oes  that  are  about  to  come. 
"  You,  INIonsieur  I'Aumonier,  the  descendant  of  a  long 
line  of  princes,  the  passionate  admirer  of  that  fair  queen 
who  sits  by  your  side,  shall  be  the  cause  of  her  ruin  and 
your  own,^  and  shall  die  in  disgrace  and  exile.    You,  son 

^  In  the  diamond-necklace  affair. 


414         THE   PARIS    SKETCH   BOOK 

of  the  Condes,  shall  live  long  enough  to  see  your  royal 
race  overthrown,  and  shall  die  by  the  hands  of  a  hang- 
man.^ You,  oldest  son  of  Saint  Louis,  shall  perish  by 
the  executioner's  axe ;  that  beautiful  head,  O  Antoinette, 
the  same  ruthless  blade  shall  sever."  "  They  shall  kill 
me  first,"  says  Lamballe,  at  the  queen's  side.  "  Yes, 
truly,"  replies  the  soothsayer,  "  for  Fate  prescribes  ruin 
for  your  mistress  and  all  who  love  her."  ^  "And,"  cries 
Monsieur  d'Artois,  "do  I  not  love  my  sister,  too?  I 
pray  you  not  to  omit  me  in  your  prophecies." 

To  whom  Monsieur  Cagliostro  says,  scornfully,  "  You 
may  look  forward  to  fifty  years  of  life,  after  most  of 
these  are  laid  in  the  grave.  You  shall  be  a  king,  but  not 
die  one;  and  shall  leave  the  crown  only;  not  the  worth- 
less head  that  shall  wear  it.  Thrice  shall  you  go  into 
exile:  you  shall  fly  from  the  people,  first,  who  would 
have  no  more  of  you  and  your  race;  and  you  shall  re- 
turn home  over  half  a  million  of  human  corpses,  that 
have  been  made  for  the  sake  of  you,  and  of  a  tyrant  as 
great  as  the  greatest  of  your  family.  Again  driven 
away,  your  bitterest  enemy  shall  bring  you  back.  But 
the  strong  limbs  of  France  are  not  to  be  chained  by  such 
a  paltry  yoke  as  you  can  put  on  her:  you  shall  be  a  ty- 
rant, but  in  will  only ;  and  shall  have  a  sceptre,  but  to  see 
it  robbed  from  your  hand." 

"  And  pray.  Sir  Conjuror,  who  shall  be  the  robber?  " 
asked  Monsieur  the  Count  d'Artois. 

*I»  •!*  'I*  *|% 

^  He  was  found  hanging  in  his  own  bed-room. 

2  Among  the  many  lovers  that  rumour  gave  to  the  queen,  poor  Fersen  is  the 
most  remarkable.  He  seems  to  have  entertained  for  her  a  high  and  perfectly- 
pure  devotion.  He  was  the  chief  agent  in  the  luckless  escape  to  Varennes;  was 
lurking  in  Paris  during  the  time  of  her  captivity;  and  was  concerned  in  the 
many  fruitless  plots  that  were  made  for  her  rescue.  Fersen  lived  to  be  an  old 
man,  but  died  a  dreadful  and  violent  death.  He  was  dragged  from  his  carriage 
by  the  mob,  in  Stockholm,  and  murdered  by  them. 


MEDITATIONS   AT    VERSAILLES     415 

This  I  cannot  say,  for  here  my  dream  ended.  The 
fact  is,  I  had  fallen  asleep  on  one  of  the  stone-benches 
in  the  Avenue  de  Paris,  and  at  this  instant  was  awakened 
by  a  whirling  of  carriages  and  a  great  clattering  of 
national  guards,  lancers  and  outriders,  in  red.  His 
Majesty  Louis  Philippe  was  going  to  pay  a  visit  to 
the  palace;  which  contains  several  pictures  of  his  own 
glorious  actions,  and  which  has  been  dedicated,  by  him, 
to  all  the  glories  of  France. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Lds  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


OISCHARGE-URI. 


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t'  111 


3  1158  00514  6419 


PR 
5617 
P21 
1923 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIUTV 


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